Stupid
by The Seamonkey
Summary: DH spoilers. Hermione's wandering train of thought as she washes the dishes. 'Ron will kill me if he sees me cleaning without a wand. You're a witch, act like it! he'd say. He doesn't understand that I need the distraction...' HHr.
1. Age 28: Hermione

**SPOILERS****. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ DEATHLY HALLOWS, **_**DO NOT READ.**_

**A/N: Ten years after Deathly Hallows; our heroes are 28 years old. Hermione's wandering train of thought while washing the dishes.**

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My mother always told me when I was small that "there may be several Mr. Right's before THE Mr. Right finds you." And I had a few people before Ron who could have been right, had the circumstances been different. Viktor was sweet, but a bit simple...and I never told anyone, but during that stupid little thing with Cormac McLaggen in sixth year, he turned out to be less of a breasts-person and more of a penis-person. That little fling ended when I found a stack of homosexual pornography hidden under his bed. Irritating bully _and _not interested in girls...not so much the Mr. Right I was hoping for.

Everybody saw it coming a painfully long time in advance...if they had made bets on when it would happen, they'd have grown bored waiting for us to get our act together. Maybe they did make bets. I suppose that's what teenagers do. Well, I don't believe in gambling. It's a silly habit. Whoever thought up the concept of betting your own hard-earned money on outcomes of activities that are usually left up to pure chance was an idiot. It was probably someone like George. Speaking of, I should visit his shop...haven't been in a while. I heard he has a new batch of excellent cursebreaking items in; really should check that out. Ugh...even after all these years, it's still painful to think about the shop and poor George running it all by himself. I don't know how he manages without his other half. Fred...

But I digress.

It's what all the fairy tales say—opposites attract. 'Squabbling and bickering means love.' If two people fight all the time, it MUST signify that they are deeply involved in a love-hate relationship with each other, meaning in simple terms that they fight because they love each other but don't want to admit it. And so, listening to the whispers of others and the shouts of my inner hopeless romantic, I fell blindly, madly in love with the boy I was meant to be with.

Classic story. The hero and his two sidekicks—the comic relief and the smart one—who eventually end up together. The hero has his own heroine to ride off into the sunset with; the beautiful, strong, sassy one. Who could resist her? Who could resist him? The sidekicks can, that's who. The sidekicks get together because they've shared so many experiences and they have the love-hate thing going on and the audience loves it...and also because they can't get the hero or the heroine. Believe me, if the smart girl had a shot in hell with the hero, by god she'd take it. But that's not how the story _goes_.

And so I landed myself with my fellow sidekick, who'd conveniently been in love with me for years, and I have been very happy with him. I love Ron. I do. He's been my friend for most of my life, and my lover for more than half the time I've known him. He is the best husband and father I could ask for. Loving, caring, fun; always ready with that dimpled, freckly smile. His flaming red hair is a welcome sight to sore eyes at the end of each day, though it's a nightmare to wash. It's so thick. And he refuses to cut it. He's beginning to resemble Bill, though not as dashing (if I can really call any Weasley dashing).

I _am_ happy...

Sometimes it's hard. With Ron and his constant jabbering about Quidditch and 'the good old days' and pestering me about vacations and wanting this and that...it's just constant. I wouldn't be so irritated by it if there was a "Thank you for making me dinner, Hermione, it was lovely" once in a while. All I get is "Oi, 'Mione, pass the applesauce," at the end of every meal. Him and his applesauce. It's becoming a ridiculous obsession; he's going to make himself sick one of these days, I swear.

Who would have thought that I'd end up a housewife? I don't even have a job. If someone had told me fifteen years ago that this is how I'd spend my evenings—washing dishes and reminiscing—I'd have laughed in their face and told them to bugger off. A housewife. Cleaning dishes. Ron never helps with the dishes. He cooks occasionally, and thinks that it makes up for never helping with the dishes. The dishes are so much worse than cooking. He'd know if he ever did them. Of course, he'd simply wave his wand and never lift a finger; but sometimes with magic, you just don't get all the spots out. There's something about a physical touch that really gets them clean, and so the Muggle way turns out to be the best way.

I wash dishes in my own home for a living. I'm married, I have a two-year-old kid and one more on the way, and I'm only twenty-eight years old. Sometimes I think about my life—really think about it—and I get so depressed that I just want to say 'to hell with the world' and off myself. But I could never do that to Rose and Master Yet-Unnamed. I can't believe how quickly Rose is growing up. I'd like to say she's the spitting image of Ron, but she looks more like me in face shape. She has the most gorgeous auburn-brown hair, and Ron's Weasley-blue eyes. She's all bright smiles and laughter.

I actually only discovered I'm pregnant again last week. I've started planning how to surprise everyone with the news, as I have nothing better to do all day. I've always wondered how Molly keeps herself occupied all the time...there's only so much mindless cleaning I can do in a day. I guess I'm used to it by now after seven years, give or take. I tried to be a Healer after Hogwarts; I went through the required three years of training, and worked at St. Mungo's for one. Ron and I got married the week I graduated from med school. I can't remember ever being as happy as I was that week, before or after. Actually, defeating Voldemort was right up there. But excluding that...nothing. Except maybe Rose being born. Merlin, do I ever love her. There's a bond between a mother and her child that no other love in life can compare to.

Anyway, I worked at St. Mungo's for a year, but it was just too hard. It reminded me vividly of everything having to do with the war—and I'd get nightmares of things like _if I'd known how to do all this, maybe Fred wouldn't have died...maybe I could have saved Remus or Tonks..._it was horrible. I worked until I couldn't anymore, and when I went off on leave for a vacation, I just...decided not to go back. I wanted to always be there for any children I'd have. My parents both worked full time when I was growing up, and I was pretty much raised by the nanny they hired to take care of me. I'm not saying they were bad parents—not at all, I love them to death—but I wanted to physically be there for mine in the way that I never really got from my mother. The hours at St. Mungo's were too long anyway. Much as I missed Healing, I think it was the right decision. Perhaps when Rose and Baby are both at Hogwarts I'll start working again. Then I'd have something to do with my time. Something to take my mind off the growing problem I've been avoiding for the past few years.

Dishes are done. I can hear Ron taking her up to bed now. He'll engage her in a tickle fight, then read her a story, tuck her in and kiss her goodnight. I'll go up in a minute. He loves their bedtime ritual. I glance over my shoulder at the doorway to the living room and sigh. The room's a mess, no doubt from an enthusiastic session of reading Ron's books on Quidditch. Rose inherited her father's passion for the game, even at her age, and she's been learning the beginning details of playing it from her uncle. Watching the two of them out on the little mini-pitch makes my heart swell. When they come in after a 'rousing match' of one-on-one, which Harry makes sure my daughter always wins, I can't help but think how identical their grins are. If I look in the light just right, I can even see shades of green in her eyes that match her godfather's exactly. Harry and Rosie. They get along very well, despite the fact that my daughter is two and Harry's my age.

He was so happy when he found out that Ron and I were having a baby at the same time he and Ginny were. Just ecstatic. His oldest, three years old now, is named after his father. James is irrepressible and mischievous like his namesake. And Albus just turned two, the same age as Rosie. The three cousins are growing up practically joined at the hip. I love James and Albus to pieces. Their parents are raising them well. Harry wants to spoil them both rotten, of course, but Ginny won't hear of it. Something about "They'll wear hand-me-downs until they're sixteen, just like I did!" I can't help chuckling at the memory.

Me, Harry and Ron...we're all grown up now. To think we were once running all over Europe, saving the world, when we were only seventeen...goes to show you there's life after Voldemort. I ended up just where I expected to be. Maybe not entirely—I certainly didn't predict being a stay-at-home mother. But here I am.

I shouldn't say 'ended up'. I'm only twenty-eight; I still have my whole life ahead of me. I can't wait to watch my children grow up and become adults, start lives of their own...have families...be happy.

I do hope they both find all the happiness they deserve. I've made mistakes in my life that if I could go back and change, I might. It's a difficult subject, because if I changed things, I may not have had Rose and Baby. Well, I haven't had Baby yet, but I know he or she's coming. My darlings. I would keep everything in my life just the way it is, for them; I can't imagine my life without Rose. Nevermind the fact that perhaps I might have been happier in the long run—I love my babies, born and unborn, and wouldn't give them up for the world. Never. Not even to fix my...situation.

"'Mione?"

I look up, startled out of my thoughts as Ron appears in the doorway to the kitchen. I smile warmly and hold out my arms. He comes forward and dutifully embraces me, saying into my hair, "You had that look on your face again." I sigh. He is observational beyond what he used to be.

"I'm just thinking about how much I love you and Rosie."

"You looked sad."

I feel tears spring unbidden to my eyes at his innocent words, and blink them away before letting go. I give him a smile. "Love isn't sad. Love is wonderful. Now, it's time for bed—I'll be up later, unless you want me to say goodnight now and not disturb you?" He nods and I push my chair in.

I walk with him up to our room—Rose has Ginny's old room from when she was young; the Burrow hasn't changed much since then—and sit on the side of the bed as he changes into pajamas and tells me all about the new broom polishing kit he got from Harry. I smile and nod, making a note to myself to thank him for it. He'll probably drop by sometime on Saturday; I'll do it then. He's so thoughtful. How does he always know when Ron starts complaining about his brooms? Must use Legilimency...I know Ron would never voice his grievances aloud, because then Harry might never give them to him. Ron gets all of Harry's old Quidditch brooms whenever Harry gets a new one.

When he slips into bed and I lean down to kiss his forehead, he whispers, "Are you sure you're okay, Hermione?"

"Yes, dear. I'm very happy." It's not a lie—I couldn't possibly ask for more than what I have, and our child is my pride and joy. My heart feels like it's going to burst with love every time I look at her. He smiles tiredly, satisfied for now, and closes his eyes. "Goodnight," I whisper.

"G'night."

I blow out the light and walk quietly out of the room, shutting the door behind me so gently that I don't even hear the latch click. I head back down to the kitchen and sit at the table by myself, feeling on the verge of tears again.

It's a horrible thing to know that you're in love with someone who's not your husband.

This isn't Hogwarts anymore. I can't just tell Ron I'm sorry and leave. He's the father of my child, soon to be children. I've been married to him for seven years. He's one of my best mates, besides. And I do love him in my own way...just...not the way a wife should love her husband. I feel fourteen again, worrying about troubles of the heart, and yet at the same time...I feel so old. Ancient. Helpless. Resigned. Like the genie in the lamp. I hate putting it like that; like I'm trapped and want out, but...I don't know.

"_You looked sad."_

"_Love's not sad. Love is wonderful."_

My heart breaks every time I lie to him. In order to protect my family from what I've got myself into, though...anything would be better than seeing anyone I love go through such a long, slow, painful heartbreak. Or find out that I am.

Listen to me. I sound like Margaret whatsherface—that dreadful Canadian author. Atwood. Her work is so depressing even I can't get through one of her books without wanting to kill her. I have to get my mind out of this rut. Right, Hermione, distract yourself; you're good at it. The dishes may be done, but the kitchen could use a little tidy-up. Muggle style. Ron will kill me if he sees me cleaning without a wand. _'It's so simple! Just say a few words and wave your wand and it's done—I don't see any point in doing it the long way. You're a witch, act like it!'_ He doesn't understand that I don't do it out of habit, but out of necessity. If there was nothing to be done around the house then I'd have nothing to occupy myself with...I can't start work again, I have nine years left before Rose goes off to Hogwarts. And another eleven, I suppose, until Baby does. They need me at home. As much as I love them and will love raising them, it will be good for me to go back to working full time, if only because I can throw myself into it without thinking of aught else.

Ridiculousness. I'm suddenly tired; my eyes are drooping. Ron probably spilt some light Sleeping Draught; I bet he forgot to give some to Rose. Clumsy man. That stuff evaporates so fast. And once it gets into the air, everyone in the house is a bit affected by it. For the last month or so, he's been putting a drop or two in Rosie's warm milk every night before bed. She has a nightmare problem. It started when she lost her favourite stuffed toy—Bubba, a plushy giraffe we got her for her first birthday—and hasn't gotten better since. I have a feeling the toy's up at Harry and Ginny's cottage...she lost it around the time we all went up there for a weekend. Maybe I'll Apparate up there and have a look around tomorrow while Rose is over at her friend Marcel's house. They get together for play-dates every once in a while; Marcel lives on Harry and Ginny's street, and is a year older than Rose. She's a darling little thing. A bit on the wild side—her parents don't discipline her very much—but very bright, that child.

There's a sound from behind me. A key in the lock of the kitchen door. As I turn around to see who it is, the door opens and Harry steps in, old overnight case in hand and a sleeping three-year-old in the other arm. The boy's thumb is stuck firmly in his mouth, a habit Ginny has been trying to break him of. Harry grins guiltily at me and waves after putting down his trunk. I sigh and plant my hands on my hips, giving him one of my infamous looks. "What did you do now?"

"It was just one set of robes!" he exclaims defensively, and I laugh, then remember to be quiet so as not to wake up James. "Ginny went up in flames about it—I don't see why he can't have _one _nice set of robes..."

"_One_ would be fine. He's only three and this is what, the tenth set you've bought him?"

"Third!" he insists, turning slightly red. "You sound like Ginny now."

I bite my tongue on a retort. The last thing I want to sound like is his wife when she's throwing one of her fits. "Well, your room's ready as always."

"Rosie asleep?" I nod. He grins at me again and heads up the stairs with his bag and his elder son, tiptoeing around the places he knows creak the loudest. The Burrow is such a rickety old house, but you can't deny it has character. The ghoul in the attic has even calmed down over the years. Harry's going up to the room on the second floor that Ron and I keep furnished with a bed, dresser, lamp, and some of Harry's things. He and Ginny fight constantly about everything you can think of—her fiery Weasley temper hasn't mellowed with age—and every so often she kicks him out of their house and he comes to stay with us for a day or two until she calms down. It's all in good fun, most of the time; even she laughs about it, and lord knows the rest of us do. It's become such a regular occurrence that we gave him his own key and stopped bothering to remind Harry to pack all his things when he does go back; it's nice for him to have his own possessions already set up in his home-away-from-home. James finds it especially hilarious—he knows that whenever his daddy splurges on something for him, his mum will boot him out for a while, and the little devil delights in teasing him about it upon his returns. Ginny never takes the things back to the stores, for all the stink she puts up about Harry buying them. I think she secretly likes that her son has luxuries that she never did. Doesn't stop her from nagging him for it.

I shake my head, smiling as I go back to cleaning. They have such a funny relationship. It reminds me of Ron and me in the beginning—always fighting about every little thing. We don't anymore. That was always our signature thing—constant bickering—but over years of marriage we've both eased up, and I can't even remember the last time we actually had a serious argument. The only thing we really disagree about is the damn dishes that he never helps with. Wanker.

So Harry brought James with him this time. Good that his son will see that Harry and Ginny aren't _really_ fighting; he'll get to experience his father's side of the argument for once. I wonder if Ginny knows Harry took James. I hope she does. I'll owl her in the morning to let her know they both arrived alright, and if he told her, it'll be nice for her to know her son's fine; if she _doesn't_ know, this will be a diplomatic and innocent way of telling her. I know it's all in fun but I do worry sometimes. It's what I do.

Footsteps on the stairs behind me. I glance over my shoulder, dust cloth in hand, and am surprised to see Harry coming down into the kitchen instead of Ron. "Smells like Sleeping Draught up there," he says, waving a hand in front of his nose. I was right, then; Ron must have spilled it. "Rose is still having nightmares, I take it?"

I nod. "She can't go two nights without one now."

"Poor thing..." he trails off, and I see deep sympathy in his eyes. I remember how he used to get terrible nightmares back in Hogwarts, and when he was growing up. Of course he sympathizes with her; he knows what it's like. "Maybe I'll talk to her about it," he offers, reading my mind. "If I tell her about mine, that she's not the only one who gets them, maybe she'll feel better. D'you think?"

I smile gratefully, tiredly. "That would be wonderful. Thank you." She adores him anyway; this will make her feel even closer to him. All my children will grow up loving him. Sometimes I wonder if Rose does more than she loves her father, but her face when he comes home at the end of the day reassures me. I can offer no such comfort for myself. I thought for so long that I could redevelop things between me and Ron, but any spark once there is long gone. And now it's been seven years, and we have Rose plus the baby he doesn't know about yet. There's nothing I can do about it—nothing I want to do about it, either. Perhaps we aren't the best matched couple, but it's not as though we don't get along at all. Ron's great. Just not The One for me.

The One for me is behind me, sitting his currently homeless ass down on my kitchen table.

_Stop it._

I've got to stop moping like this, especially when he's in the house. Much less the same room. I can feel his eyes on my back. _Please look away._ I'll drop something, and enough things get broken in this household without me adding to it. There; it's safe to turn around. I do so. He's staring idly at the Weasley clock, modified so many years ago when Fred died, then again when I married Ron, and a third time when Rose was born. This isn't counting the additions of Harry, James and Albus. All of the hands are pointing towards _Home_ except Harry's, which is hovering over _Vacation_. I smile absently to myself; 'vacation' isn't the word I would use. But now something needs to break the silence before I make a fool of myself. "Did you see Ron while you were upstairs?" I ask, not a trace of a tremor in my voice. He shakes his head, and I sigh. "He probably inhaled too much Draught. I'll go see if he's alright."

"I'll come with," Harry offers, and I close my eyes briefly before nodding and flashing him another grateful smile. "You might need help dragging him to your bedroom if he's conked out on Rosie's floor."

He's right. It won't be the first time it's happened, either, which is the pathetic thing. We tiptoe up the stairs to the third floor and into Rose's room...and sure enough, there's Ron, out cold on her flower-shaped rug. I gather up the shards of glass that used to be a vial and put them in the trash. Both of us suppressing laughter—Rose is sleeping, after all—we each pick up two limbs and proceed to drag my husband down the hall and into our room, where Harry hoists him up onto the bed and goes back downstairs as I get Ron under the sheets and comfortable.

When I come back into the kitchen, dusting my hands off on my apron, Harry looks up and tilts his head at me. "You reminded me of Molly just there, with that apron on and all." I pause, not knowing what to think. I flush a little. I can't tell if it's a compliment or not—is he saying I look old and motherly, or warm and...oh, bother. I can never tell with Harry. He just sits there looking at me oddly, and I stand here at the bottom of the stairs, fiddling with my skirt. There's a loose thread. I shouldn't pull it, but I do. It gives easily, leaving a horizontal run on the material. Pressing the end that's still attached, I rip the thread off and toss it into the nearest trash can. Harry has been carefully watching me do this the whole while. I've had enough of this silliness. I meet his eyes for a brief second, and they are friendly but thoughtful behind the warmth. I walk past him into the kitchen and start straightening the various Muggle appliances that Ron and I have charmed to work with magic instead of electricity. Arthur comes over whenever he can to tinker with everything here; he hasn't lost his fascination with Muggle things, and he's still convinced that it's called 'ecklecticy'.

There's only so much I can do in the already-spotless kitchen. As I turn around to find something else to busy myself with, I notice the strange look on Harry's face as he watches me. It's a bit vacant, as though he's forgotten what he's looking at but has slipped into an absent state and can't tear his eyes away. Sure enough, as I meet his gaze, he blinks and straightens a bit, looking more focused. "Is there anything I can help with?" he asks, always eager to please. I shake my head. That's one thing I love about him. He never has to do any work around his own house—Kreacher takes care of all that—and so whenever he comes over here, he tries to make up for it by doing every chore he can.

"Are you sure?"

I blink, remembering Harry's here. I was lost in my thoughts for a moment there. "Well, there's not much to do, really; I spend my time cleaning and cleaning and cleaning again, so there's never much cleaning to do at the end of the day."

"You should relax more."

I agree, but then who would clean? Certainly not Ron, he's usually the one who makes the messes. "What else can I fill my time with?"

"I dunno. Anything. I only asked because you look like you're trying to keep busy."

Maybe that's where my husband got his observational skills from; lessons from Harry. He is far shrewder than I give him credit for. "No, no...just making sure there's nothing left to be done." I have to acknowledge my own words, and I sit down at the table across from Harry. He leans forward on one elbow and draws circles on the wood with a calloused finger. He really should wear gloves when he plays Quidditch. I wonder when his next game is. He plays for England in the international league. He actually made our country's team good, which is a marvel in itself, and his salary is sky-high. I still think sports stars shouldn't be paid so much, but that's not up to me to decide, I suppose...and besides, I wouldn't want to deprive Harry of the means to spoil his kids. Then he'd never have any fun. That's when he's happiest, I think; when he's alone with James, Albus and Rose, teaching them the fine art of Quidditch on the little pitch out back, and making the three cousins feel like they're kings and queen of the world.

"You always seem busy when I come over, but you never really _do_ anything."

I freeze, breath caught in my throat. What business is it of his that I feign constant activity? I _need_ to work. I _need_ to be occupied. I _need_ to be always doing something, because if I don't, I'll just stop moving and stare blindly out a window and picture myself walking into my bedroom and seeing _him_ lying there waiting for me instead of Ron. Imagine myself running my hands through that thick tangle of black hair. Stand there and wish and close my eyes and never want to open them again. And I can't lose myself in dreams, because my child—children—need me here. So I busy my hands and pretend it doesn't matter.

"Hermione?"

I swallow with difficulty. For some reason it is particularly hard to concentrate on remaining calm tonight. "Sure I do things; I clean."

"Yes, but there's only so much cleaning you can _do;_ I mean...there's more to life than picking up after other people."

"Perhaps, but it's not for me."

We are both silent for a long time. The unspoken words between us spiral and stretch into the still air, and neither of us know what to say. Then Harry, looking down at the table, speaks.

"I never thought you'd be a housewife." What is this, Legilimency night? "I thought you'd always be busy—really busy, not fake-busy—doing everything you could think of, running one charity organization or another and being a Healer and volunteering at the local library and still managing to find time to hang out with me and Ron, and raise whatever children you had at the same time. I...I think you're...wasted, being idle like this. The world needs more Hermione's, and you're spending your best years doing...nothing. No offense. Do you know what I mean?"

I stare at him in open-mouthed surprise. I hadn't had Harry pegged to be so insightful. I can feel my heart rising up into my mouth, words wanting to spill out in a rush that's been held back for years, arms tensing to reach out across the table and seize his hand, but I restrain myself. As usual. Closing my mouth, I manage a shaky smile and nod. "I...yes. Like I'm puttering around my house wasting my days away as life goes by...it's a scary thought."

"Yeah."

I feel a connection with him that wasn't there before, and it warms me. He knows how I feel. Not only that, but he openly acknowledges it. I glance over at him, and instinctively I know he hasn't talked to Ginny about this, just as I haven't talked to Ron. There are some things you don't tell your partner that you tell your best friend. That's what Harry is—my best friend. Nothing more. Never has been, never will be. No matter how much I've wanted...or how long I've sat by and smiled as he...or watched the rain fall, wishing I could run around outside in it with my face turned up to the sky and drown in it... in the downpour of bittersweet musical pitter-patter on the roof tiles...

I am shaken out of my reverie by a touch on my hand. Those impossibly green eyes are boring into my plain brown ones. "You don't have to watch it go by." His thumb makes circles on my skin. I can't breathe at all, nor can I look away and break the hold of his gaze. It seems like we are caught in a loose spellthread outside the normal weave of time. I am unable to stop myself leaning forward the tiniest bit across the table, and I could be mistaken, but it looks as though he is too. There is an insurmountable degree of tension in the room. I still cannot look away. I wish I could; then I could get up and go _anywhere else._

Just as I think I'm about to scream, there is a creak on the stairs. It immediately shatters the intensity between Harry and me. I stand up, turning towards the stairs, trying to hide my hands in the folds of my apron so as not to reveal how terribly they are shaking. Two small slippered feet come into view, and then a yawning three-year-old boy. "Daddy," my nephew begins sleepily, and smiles beatifically. "I wanna snack."

"Don't ask me, I'm not in charge here," Harry says with a grin. James turns his eyes to me. I must still look frazzled beyond belief—I know I still feel it—because his tired smile falters and his eyes fill up with questions. I consciously smooth my features and attempt to smile back, but can't quite manage it. I must try words instead.

"Come hug your aunt."

He obediently does so, and is pulled up onto my lap, burying his face in my apron. I look between the two of them and an unwanted thought crosses my mind—_like father, like son_—and my throat closes up as I imagine James's hair lighter brown, and his eyes darker like mine...

_I wish he was my son._

Not just because he's Harry's son—the boy's mischievous streak makes him irresistible to me. I know, I know...unlike me...but it's really not. It may have been an inconceivable thought fifteen, twenty years ago, but since the war, I've lost that trademark strict adherence to rules. Rose is so far a good girl, but with James as an example and Harry as her uncle, always getting kicked out of his own house by his wife...I know she'll grow up with at least a few impish tendencies.

James looks up at me and asks in his best cute-puppy voice, "C'n I have a snack?"

"What do you say?" I reply, and he attempts to roll his eyes like he's seen his father do countless times at his mother.

"_Please_ c'n I have a snack?"

I nod and he squeaks in delight, then slides off my lap and runs over to the cupboard that he knows from past experience holds various dry cereals. As he assembles a snack for himself, getting milk out from the refrigerator, I stand up and open a cupboard above the counter to get a bowl for him. James thanks me and pours out the cereal, getting a spoon out of a drawer and sitting down at the table to eat. I put the materials away with a flick of my wand—the time for cleaning like a Muggle is over—and sit back down where I was before, across from Harry. James is sitting at the end without an eye for either of us, just shoveling food into his mouth.

I smile fondly and think of Rose. I stand again—up and down, up and down; I must look so restless—and go over to the sink where there's a picture of her on her first time on a broom. She's laughing uproariously as Ron and Harry slowly take their hands away, leaving her to fly on her own without them to steady her. Sometimes I think Harry's more her father than Ron is. It's not true; Ron has been just as big a part in raising her as I have. Well, that's not true either...but though Harry is her favourite uncle, he's not her father. _He's not her father._ I've told myself that at least twice a day since she was born. And I've spent _ten_ years of my life telling myself to stop wanting what I can't have. I turn around and lean forward against the sink, bracing myself so I won't collapse. The stars outside seem blurry. _Stupid._

I notice it's grown silent behind me. They were talking until now. Then I hear my nephew's quiet voice. "Sometimes she gets like this when you c—"

"I distinctly remember you getting put to bed already," I say, turning back around to face him with an _I-caught-you_ grin on my face. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ He grins guiltily back and nods, getting the picture. He slides off the seat and waves goodnight, then scampers back upstairs to his room. It is silent for a few seconds before Harry decides to speak.

"When I come over?"

I squeeze my eyes shut, then look at him and try to laugh. "Kids. I don't know what he—"

"It's okay to tell me, Hermione."

I break off mid-sentence and choke. He can see the distress on my face. "_Accio bowl_." James's empty bowl zooms towards me, and I spin back around to face the sink, placing it carefully in the basin to mask my trembling hands. _Shaking again._ I look out the window above it, breathing fast and shallow breaths, and wonder if this will be the night my life finally falls apart. I've kept it so carefully together for a whole decade, so meticulous about my facial expressions and demeanor, and it's all going to go to hell because I can't control myself for one evening. I hear him get up and come around the table to stand behind me. He doesn't touch me, thank god. I don't know what I'd do if he did. Faint, probably. Very Hermione-like. I almost burst into hysterical laughter, but don't. I can feel how close he is. I see his reflection in the windowpane, staring worriedly at me. I can't escape this time. I can't hide behind Ron or my daughter. _All up to me._

"Are you alright?"

"Nnh—yes. I'm fine." _Keep calm._ I almost slip on the floor because of the weight I'm pressing myself down with. I feel rooted to the spot. What's so bad about the situation? I can handle this. All I have to do is tell him I'm tired and had a stressful day, then make up something that could have happened. Easy. _Stupid._

There is an awkward silence, and then he takes a tiny step forward. "You're not fine. Since when do you lie to me?"

Breaking point is imminent. I'm going to whirl around in a second and either kiss him or punch him in the gut, _anything_ to stop this torture. "I'm not lying. I'm just married."

"What?"

_WHAT?_ WHY DID I SAY THAT? I'M GOING TO KILL MYSELF.

"Hermione, what are you talking about?"

Goodbye, perfect life.

I do whirl around now, and look desperately up into his eyes while pressing myself back up against the sink. "Nothing! Nevermind! Please go away; I can't deal with this right now!" I plead silently for him to understand.

"Can't deal with this, or with me?"

"This! With this! Just—something happened today—I'm stressed, and tired—" I grasp at straws, trying to reel in and pull a story together to save myself. He takes another step toward me and I shrink away from him, near tears. _Please, Harry. Please go away_.

And now suddenly he's pulling me into his arms, tucking my head in under his chin, and holding me as my body shudders, wracked with stifled sobs. _I love you._ I can't hold back anymore. After so many years of smiling when I want to die, I can't. I want to buck up and put on another silly face—I'm being ridiculously angsty, and if I was any of my friends, I wouldn't want to be around me. I'd tell myself to look around at my life and see how perfect it is. I have no reason to be so upset—I should be thankful for what I have, which is a lot. _Just one thing missing_.

"Look...what's wrong?"

I shove him away so that I can glare angrily up into his alarmed green eyes. "NOTHING. Nothing I can do anything about, anyway. Because everything is so damned _perfect_, I can't fix the one thing that's _not_."

"What _is_ wrong?" He looks like he wants to hug me again, so I put up a hand and place it firmly on his chest to keep him an arm's length away.

"Stop trying to comfort me. I can deal with this on my own. I have been for—however long, it doesn't matter, all that matters is that you please leave me alone so I can calm down and we can go on and pretend this didn't happen."

"You're not making any sense. _What_ didn't happen?" he asks, very confused now. I suppose I'm not making much sense. But it doesn't matter—better that way. Now he won't know. If I just play up the crazy, maybe he'll think I've got heatstroke or some such thing and whisk me off to St. Mungo's for a checkup, and then I can blame everything on being ill and nothing will have to change.

"I—I'm not feeling well," I begin, but he surprises me and folds his arms across his chest, frowning.

"Don't start with me, Hermione. I know you inside and out." I blush furiously, thinking _No you don't._ "What? See that, right there—you won't even look at me. What did James say—you sometimes get like this when I come over? Did I do something wrong...?"

"No!" I wail, and I finally do look up at him now. "You did everything _right_. You always have. That's...that's the problem."

He looks confused for a second, and then he lifts an eyebrow as I gasp, covering my mouth with one hand. My eyes must say it all. I imagine _I love you_ is written all over my face. Everything is deathly silent except for my heavy breathing. I cannot believe I just said what I did. I want to sink into the floor and disappear and die; I see the immense disbelief in his features and find myself wanting to kiss away the confusion. That would clear him up on what I mean, that's for sure; and it might give me one moment of respite after all these years of tense restraint.

"You..." he can't manage more before choking off, his voice thick. I note to myself again that I want to die. My child is upstairs. My _husband_ is upstairs. And all I can think about is how much I want them to be anywhere else...or for me to be anywhere else. This is not the way I pictured this happening. I used to daydream that if I ever told him how I feel, it would be while we were walking out in the wilderness somewhere, reminiscing about when we were younger, and he would say something that hinted that he was unhappy with Ginny and loved someone else, and I would tell him I loved him and he would exclaim that he loved me too, and I would fall into his arms and we'd have mad passionate sex in a mossy glade somewhere deep in the woods. I never thought he'd find out in my kitchen, with my whole family and part of his asleep upstairs. I guess nothing in life goes exactly the way you plan. Not that I planned to tell him; it was a hypothetical situation until now.

"Harry..." I breathe, voice all choked up with rawness and emotion. He looks like he doesn't know what to do. I don't blame him. I don't know what to do either. "I'm sorry. I should never have—"

"What? Should never have told me?"

"I haven't—"

"But you—you—" He can't get the words out any more than I can. Maybe he hasn't figured it out. "You have...feelings? For m—isn't that—isn't that what you—" He breaks off. I close my eyes. Well, my life just went out the window.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again. He glares at me.

"Sorry for what?"

"Everything," I whisper miserably, and he digs his hand into his hair in frustration or confusion or anger, probably all three. "I'm so sorry," I try again, desperately attempting to reconcile this stupidly stressful conversation. "I'm sorry—I should—can't we just pretend this never—"

"How long?" he asks, and I hesitate before answering. Should I just say it's been a month and downplay it, or...no. He deserves the truth. I've come this far.

"Since the end of the war."

I see the shock resonate across his face, and he stumbles back against the table, gripping the solid wood for support. Again, I don't blame him. I'd be shocked and horrified too if my best friend suddenly up and told me they'd had feelings for me for the past ten or eleven years. I don't know what to do. I want to kill myself. This is possibly the worst thing I've done, ever. I may have just ruined the lives of all the people closest to me. It all depends on his reaction now.

He's looking at me now. Studying me. Putting pieces together. Suddenly anger flashes across his face and he says, "So...what about Ron? You just never—he was what, a convenient shag until I lost interest in Ginny?"

He all but physically slapped me in the face. I recoil as though he did. My chest hurts...I didn't think he would be so..._scathing_...I hope I'm not having a heart attack...wouldn't be surprised if I am, though...I can't _believe_ it. "That is possibly the worst thing you have ever said to me."

"Well?" He still expects me to answer seriously. I take a deep breath and answer seriously, deliberately.

"Ron was not a convenient shag. He was right for me at the time. I loved him. I love him—just—not the way it should be. He was...he was _there_. He loved me, and it was _supposed_ to happen. Everyone knew it. Even I—I was already half fallen for him until that—that last year, during the search for the Horcruxes, and then...things...changed."

Harry's eyes flash again. I bite back a sob at how wrong this has gone. "You can't _tell_ me this, Hermione! I—I'm _married!_ _You're_ married, for god's sake, to my best—our best friend! What do you expect me to—"

"I don't expect anything," I hurry to say, as my eyes fill up with tears at last. "Nothing. I didn't even—I never meant to tell you at all—it's just tonight, my head's all—I'm so _sorry_, Harry, please don't hate me—"

"_Hate_ you?" he says, and his mouth falls open a little in genuine disbelief. "_Hate_ you? _You?_"

I close my eyes and take in a steadying breath. I will not let the tears fall. "Look. Please. I'm asking you as your friend, to just let this go and pretend I never—"

He's looking at the general area of my knees now, deep in thought. He puts up a hand to stop me continuing to speak. "What I don't understand," he begins, voice calm and low, "is why you never...did anything about it. During that year with the Horcruxes, especially. You never told anyone, you never—"

"You were happy."

He frowns. "I wasn't with—"

"Anyone could see you still wanted to be with her. And sure enough, right after everything was over, up she ran and when I saw how happy you were...I couldn't mess that up," I tell him simply. The truth feels like morphine on a broken leg. A rush of cool relief. "Besides, I'd already all but promised myself to Ron at that point. And I did have feelings for him. It just—"

Harry stops me again with a finger in the air, then lowers it and slowly raises his head to let his gaze meet mine. "Ten _years?_"

I nod once.

"Without one word."

I nod again, once.

"That's more than a third of our lives. And half the time we've known each other."

I nod a third time and wonder if he's turned me into a bobble-head doll. I feel oddly serene now, even though I should be crying or screaming and begging forgiveness. I remind myself strangely of Luna Lovegood in her prime. I have the feeling we're going to get interrupted again by James or Ron, just as we're in the middle of this. It would be nice to be rescued, but then again, no; this is good to get off my chest. I think I'll feel much better once it's all over. It's not the end of the world, all things considered. Famous last words, Hermione.

"I wish you'd said something."

Silence.

He picks awkwardly at a loose sliver of wood poking out from the edge of the table. I don't want to be looking at him, afraid of what I might see, but I can't help it. My eyes are glued to his. He isn't looking away either. A daydream flashes briefly across the front of my mind—_he steps forward and seizes me in his arms and kisses me. No, not just kisses me—ravishes my mouth with his tongue._ I'm living an erotica novel in my head...I am _so_ glad he can't see what I'm thinking. The urge to giggle at my own absurdity comes over me and I can't help wondering if perhaps a trip to St. Mungo's isn't such a bad idea after all.

I am suddenly overcome with a wave of tiredness. I can't deal with this anymore. "I never thought you'd find out this way. Here, now; it sounds so ridiculous and childish. I'm sorry I put you through this; if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and sort of...pretend this never happened...I would be grateful."

He looks incredulously at me. I don't blame him. He must think I'm out of my mind.

I clear my throat and straighten up, brushing imaginary dust off my apron. "I have to go to bed. I hope there's still another vial of Draught in the bathroom, or else I'll never get to sl—"

He kisses me.

For the first few seconds I couldn't move if I wanted to. It's everything I've wanted, but I still manage to gently push him away and close my eyes. My heart must be breaking the sound barrier with the speed of its thudding in my chest. Like a hummingbird's wings. But I can't do it to them. I know how awful it would be if the kids ever found out. Or our respective spouses.

His soothing fingers in my hair. I press my fingers to his chest, curl them around the surface above his heart. I want to hear his voice, husky in the stillness. I don't open my eyes, and shake my head.

"No. It was too late ten years ago, it's too late now." I hate being a mother for a second, and forcibly picture my child's face in my head to remind myself that I love her.

"Hermione..."

I sigh, my hands still on his chest. "I waited for you to say my name like that for god knows how long. I don't care how stupid that sounds. But it was too late for us the second you saw Ginny that day."

He nods after a moment, bitterly acknowledging the truth of it. Now I look up at him. I'm shocked to see tears glinting in the corners of his eyes—he never cries. _Ever_. It only makes me love him that much more. I know what I have to do, though. And this is when I make the decision to tell him what I found out a week ago. I haven't said a word to anyone else yet; I've been trying to figure out a good way to announce the news. I lift a finger and wipe away a salty drop that leaked out and started rolling down his cheek.

"I'm pregnant."

His eyes go round and big as saucers. "Are you serious?"

I nod. I've been doing a lot of that lately. "It's a boy, I know it is. Mother's instinct. I want to name him Harry...though it might get confusing with two of you around...maybe just something starting with an H."

He looks down at me, moved. I don't know that he's moved, I suppose, but he looks it. Another tear escapes and he quickly brushes it away, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. I tell him things silently with my gaze, and he seems to understand. I want the baby to be his.

"Hermione...we could have—"

"I know." I don't want to hear him say it. That would make it worse. Everything; we could have been everything. But instead he enveloped a fire-haired girl in his arms when she ran to him, ashen-faced both, her relieved and overjoyed smile brighter than the sun, as I watched from less than a foot away, arms around him but feeling almost rejected, a funny feeling beginning to stir in my chest. No one was more thankful to see him alive than I was. But I didn't run fast enough. I got there a precious second too late. Look now at what it cost me. I'm going make sure all of my offspring are in TOP shape all their lives; you never know when you might need to run _just_ a little faster.

"I would have been everything for you that you wanted me to be." He means it, and says it seriously.

"I know." And I do.


	2. Age 28: Harry

**SPOILERS. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ 'DEATHLY HALLOWS', **_**DO NOT READ.**_

**A/N: Between the end and the end of Deathly Hallows; our heroes are 28 years old. Harry visits The Burrow one night and has a life-altering conversation with his best friend.**

**Sorry for the delay; I've been crazy busy with work and a bad case of writer's block. You know how it is.**

**--**

"We've had this discussion a million times, Harry—"

"And we'll have it again, I'm sure."

"I don't WANT to have it again! If you would just LISTEN to me—"

I sigh heavily and rake my fingers through my hair. "Gin, is this really about the robes? Because I'll take them back if that's what you—"

"You know perfectly well that it's the fact that you bought them in first place that makes me angry," she says coldly, and I want to shake her. I just don't see the _point_ in getting so incensed over one set of robes. What the devil does she care that our oldest son has one more thing to wear? She should be _happy_—don't women usually love dressing up their offspring anyway? I have never understood women in my life, and though now would be as good a time as any to start, it isn't happening. So I'm left on my own in the dark, _again_, as Ginny blows up in my face and James watches silently from the top of the stairs, half-hidden behind the railing. I glance up at him now, and he stares solemnly back down at me, meeting my gaze as evenly as if he were twice my age. My heart aches for him to see us fight like this.

"Look," I say quietly, turning back to Ginny as she crosses her arms over her chest. "What do you want me to do?" She lifts an eyebrow and doesn't answer. I sigh again, about to give up. "Well, if you won't tell m—"

"If you don't know by now what I want, I'm not going to tell you. You'll have to figure that out yourself."

I want to pull my hair out of my head. Since when did it become a good idea for women to let their husbands 'figure things out themselves'? Since never, that's when. There's only one option left for me at this point, at least that I can see, and I let my head fall forward as I resign myself to it. "I'll get my trunk."

Her eyes flash, and I know too late that I've said the wrong thing. "Why do you _always_ leap to that conclusion, Harry? One tiny argument and it's off to The Burrow! Do you purposely make me mad so you can go there? Are you just trying to get away from me, is that it?"

"For god's sake, Gin—" What the hell is she talking about? How could she think that? I'll never understand her...

"Don't play the idiot!" she screeches, arms snapping to her sides, iron rods with tiny little fists like golf clubs at the ends. Her hair's starting to come down out of its already-messy bun, loose wispy strands floating around her head. "That's the only thing that can fix anything for you, isn't it? UGH!" When she gets like this, her usually stunningly warm features turn in favour of ugly coldness. I can never decide to myself whether she gets more fiery when angry or icy cold. A combination of both, I guess. I try my best to just calmly let her have her way, but there's some perverse instinct inside me that eggs me on to irritate her. Maybe it's because when she's angry, that's the only time she shows that _rawness_, that intensity that drew me to her in the first place, when I was sixteen. I have to get her all riled up. She never lets any emotion other than pleasantness show through otherwise. I think she wants to put on some kind of 'good show' for the kids...but it started before we had James, so scrap that theory.

"D'you want me to stay here, then?" I ask wearily, and she blows fresh up again.

"NO! Out of my sight, out of my house, go run off to the damn Burrow before I hex you into the middle of next _week!_"

With those lovely parting words, she storms up the stairs and passes right by James, huddling on the floor as she goes by. I hear her stomp down the hall and—yes, there's the slam of our bedroom door. I see our son wince at the sound. I hurt that he hurts. He's curled up in a little slump at the top of the stair, still watching me with the one eye that's not hidden by the banister. I gesture for him to come down, but he shakes his head, bumping his nose on the wooden post. I can see his eyes start to water. With another sigh for Ginny's temper and my own stupid urges to infuriate her, I trudge up the stairs and sit on the landing as he crawls up onto my lap and buries his face in my chest. My arms encircle him. "Shh, it's alright..." I murmur as he cries quietly, rocking him back and forth. "It was just a little fight. Your mother and I will make up tomorrow, I promise."

"You don' make up," he sniffles, the sound muffled by my shirt, and I squeeze him tighter. "You jus' pretend it didn' happen." Strangely insightful for so young a boy. Must get it from overexposure to Hermione. That woman...if things had been different...but before I can go down that train of thought again, my attention turns back to my son as he pulls back and looks at me with wide, tearful three-year-old eyes. His mother's eyes, light brown; in this light, meaning barely any, they look much darker. "Are you and Mummy gonna split?"

"Of course not. Who told you what that means?"

"Cory," he mumbles, and I stiffen a bit. Cory Smithson is a bad influence on James. He's old for his six years, and because his parents don't discipline him, he's grown a bit wild. His little sister Marcel is three, and looking like she'll turn out the same. She plays with Rose—Hermione and Ron's two-year-old—now and then. I'm not sure I approve. Rose has her cousin Albus, who's both her age and well-behaved, to play with. The Smithsons, while nice people, do not have sufficient control over their children, and it shows.

I move James on my knees so that he's looking straight at me, level with my gaze. "Don't you listen to Cory about that, James. He doesn't know what he's talking about, and he's just being mean. Your mother and I love each other very much and nothing will ever change that. Understand?"

He hesitates for a second, and a lump rises into my throat as I worry he'll have doubts—but he nods, though slowly, and I enfold him back into my arms to let him cry himself out.

I hear a door open at the end of the hall, and as I lean back to see, Ginny emerges into the hallway looking murderous. I shift James protectively to the other side of my chest and wait for her to say something. From here I can see feelings passing across her face as she sees James, one after the other—rage, worry, sadness, and then back to anger again—before she stalks forward. "Turning my son against me now?" she says quietly with deadly frostiness in her voice. "Get out. I thought I told you I don't want you here tonight."

Reminding her that it's more my house than hers would be futile, and only provoke her more. A huge desire to say it anyway surges through me, but I repress it nonetheless with great difficulty. Standing up with James in one arm, his head resting on my shoulder and staring at his mother through thick lashes that will attract the girls someday, I reply with equal softness to my voice but lacking all the deadliness. I'm just tired of this. "Can't you see he's upset?"

"I'm sure your precious Hermione will be able to fix all his tears," she says scathingly, and I frown.

"You don't mean that. In all seriousness, Gin, you're not yourself tonight." But she is, and that's the problem. This is her nature. Lashing out when she feels threatened. I threaten her power over her children by undermining her and buying them things she says they can't have; and she goes up in flames about it every time, using every weapon she has—more often than not making things up—to gain back her authority and make me hurt. It hasn't worked in ages. Doesn't stop her from trying.

"Get out," she hisses, and I pull out my wand.

She tenses in shock, then relaxes as I say "_Accio trunk_." It zooms out of our bedroom from behind her as I replace the wand in my robes, and lands in my waiting hand.

"You had it packed already." It's an accusation, not a question.

"Always do," I tell her sadly, and for the first time tonight I can tell I've really upset her. Pain flits across her pretty face but I don't have the heart or the energy to apologize. I walk down the stairs and put down the trunk to open the door. When I've set it down on the porch, I straighten and take a look back at the second-floor landing. Ginny is standing beside the wall at the left end, a strange look on her face. She doesn't say anything and neither do I.

James has done Side-Along Apparition before, he knows what it's about; once the squeeze and the darkness are over, he lets his head fall back on my shoulder and goes right off to sleep as I walk up the dirt road leading to the Burrow. I fumble with the key for a minute as I get to the house, putting down the trunk as I pull it out from some deep pocket, and finally get it in the lock and open the door. It doesn't squeak—a wonder of Hermione's charm work—as I push it in, and I grab up my trunk to step inside, closing it behind me as quietly as I can. There she is, cleaning as always, turning now to see who's just let himself into her house. She puts her hands on her hips and gives me one of her infamous looks. "What did you do now?" she asks, and I go immediately into defensive mode.

"It was just one set of robes!" I exclaim, and she laughs, then appears to remember to be quiet so as not to wake up James. "Ginny went up in flames about it—I don't see why he can't have _one _nice set of robes..."

"_One_ would be fine. He's only three and this is what, the tenth set you've bought him?"

"Third!" I insist, turning slightly red. She looks like she's going to reprimand me some more. "You sound like Ginny now."

The retort I expect doesn't come. She always has hated being compared to my wife for some reason. "Well, your room's ready as always."

"Rosie asleep?" I ask, and she nods. I give her another grin and pick up my trunk again, heading up the rickety old stairs to the second floor and tiptoeing around the places I know creak the loudest. The Burrow may be falling apart, but you can't deny it has character. As I reach the second-floor room that is my second home, I lay James down gently on the bed and tuck him in under the covers, taking his thumb out of his mouth because I know it'll taste terrible in the morning if he leaves it there. I put my trunk down in the corner and don't bother to unpack. I'll do it later. I want to go talk to Hermione; it's been a week since I've been here, seems like ages.

I step out into the hall and notice what I didn't before—the distinct, delicate odour of Sleeping Draught. As I make my way quietly back down to the kitchen I see her wiping off the countertop with a dust cloth. Always cleaning. I don't get it. There are better things she can do with her time...she's heard me. She glances over her shoulder and looks surprised to see me. I wave my hand in front of my nose to clear away the smell of Draught as my eyes droop threateningly. "Smells like Sleeping Draught up there. Rose is still having nightmares, I take it?"

Hermione nods. "She can't go two nights without one now."

"Poor thing..." I murmur as memories of my own nightmare-filled childhood come back to me. I remember not being able to sleep sometimes for fear of seeing that pale face and green light. "Maybe I'll talk to her about it. If I tell her about mine, that she's not the only one who gets them, maybe she'll feel better. D'you think?" I hope so.

She gives me a grateful smile. "That would be wonderful. Thank you." She looks so tired. I suppress the instinct to hug her; I suspect that would only make her sleepier, and I want her to stay awake so we can talk. Selfish of me. Oh well. I sit down on the kitchen table and watch as she resumes cleaning the countertop. My eyes drift over her, following the dizzy lines of her hair as it falls around her shoulders. The polar opposite of Ginny; sometimes I inwardly compare the two. I'm always surprised by how their appearances belie their personalities—Hermione with her carelessly thrown-on clothes and flyaway hair, always the image of the frazzled housewife, and Ginny, as meticulous about her looks as Hermione is not. Looking at them, you'd think Ginny would be more in control of herself and her temper, but Hermione has always been the calm and reasonable one. She's the one I go to after dealing with Ginny all day. Sometimes it's as though Ginny is my job and Hermione's the one I come home to...but she's not. Our house in Godric's Hollow is my home. James and Albus love the Burrow, but eventually they always want to sleep in their own rooms again.

Stupid thoughts. I glance over at the Weasley clock and grin faintly as I see my hand pointing towards 'Vacation'. That's not what I would call it. Hermione breaks the silence.

"Did you see Ron while you were up there?" I shake my head, and she sighs. "He probably inhaled too much Draught. I'll go see if he's alright."

"I'll come with," I offer, standing up. She tenses for a split second—I don't think she meant for me to see it—and then flashes me another smile. I feel the need to justify myself coming with her. "You might need help dragging him to your bedroom if he's conked out on Rosie's floor." In truth, I just want her company. I'm comforted by her presence.

We peek into Rose's room and, sure enough, he's lying passed out on the rug Ginny picked out to get her for her birthday. Suppressing a snort—the two-year-old girl is sleeping, after all—I pick up his arms and Hermione gets his legs, and we drag him down the hall into their bedroom. I glance around as she pushes the door open with her behind. I don't come in here often; they've moved stuff around since I last saw it. The bed used to be in the other corner. Hermione lets go as I hoist Ron up onto the bed, and I head back downstairs to let her make him comfortable.

I pull out a chair and sit down at the table, drumming my fingertips on the hard wooden surface. Despite what I tell myself, the Burrow often feels more like home to me than Godric's Hollow. The table is familiar, the lamps all the same as they have been for years, with a few exceptions—Hermione's small additions to the homestead. I sigh a little in frustration. I can't think about anything without it leading somehow back to her. My sister-in-law. I repeat that phrase a few times to myself, and hear footsteps on the stairs. I look up at her and tilt my head to one side as a thought occurs to me. "You reminded me of Molly just there, with that apron on and all." I dunno. She looks all homey and motherly and tired, like Molly often does. Hermione pauses on the stair for a moment, flushing a little. I wonder why. She fiddles with a loose thread on her skirt, then tears it off and throws it in the trash. As she glances up to meet my eyes, she looks...shy. Odd for her.

I watch her absently as she bustles about the kitchen, trying to look busy while actually doing nothing at all. I wonder absently why she doesn't just sit down, and I can feel my eyes glaze over a little as my thoughts wander. The lines of her dress change with her movement as she turns here and bends there, fabric becoming taut as a corner is momentarily caught on the edge of a cupboard, then slips free. She doesn't notice. Now she turns around and looks at me, and I blink to recover. "Is there anything I can help with?" I ask, though there's clearly nothing left to be done. She shakes her head. "Are you sure?"

She gives a little start, as though she forgot I was here. "Well, there's not much to do, really; I spend my time cleaning and cleaning and cleaning again, so there's never much cleaning to do at the end of the day."

"You should relax more."

"What else can I fill my time with?"

Anything. She shouldn't waste her life doing nothing. She's capable of _everything_. "I dunno. Anything. I only asked because you look like you're trying to keep busy."

"No, no...just making sure there's nothing left to be done." She sits down at the table across from me, and I lean forward on one elbow to draw spirals on the wood with a finger. Even though we're not saying much, I don't want to sleep. Clearly something's bothering her; she wouldn't be so distracted and stressed if there wasn't. Oh, she tries to hide it, but I know. I can always tell with her.

"You always seem busy when I come over, but you never really _do_ anything." I hear her breath catch in her throat. I've hit upon something. I glance up at her, but she's staring intensely at her lap. The sudden urge to reach out and touch her hand comes over me. I ignore it. I'd never admit it to anyone, but Ginny isn't always wrong with the insults she throws at me. I do believe Hermione can fix anything. She...ah, it's pointless going down that track again. My straying thoughts betray me. "Hermione?"

"Sure I do things; I clean."

"Yes, but there's only so much cleaning you can _do;_ I mean...there's more to life than picking up after other people."

"Perhaps, but it's not for me."

Silence stretches between us, and I know that the chance for any lighthearted conversation is gone. I look down at the table. If she's looking at me I don't meet her gaze. There are unspoken things hanging in the air, but I don't know what they are. I wish I could think of something comforting to say—she's always here for me, and now she needs me to be here for her, but I'm drawing a blank. So I say the thing that's been bugging me for ages. It seems an appropriate time to bring it up.

"I never thought you'd be a housewife." I keep my eyes fixed on the wood. "I thought you'd always be busy—really busy, not fake-busy—doing everything you could think of, running one charity organization or another and being a Healer and volunteering at the local library and still managing to find time to hang out with me and Ron, and raise whatever children you had at the same time. I...I think you're...wasted, being idle like this. The world needs more Hermione's, and you're spending your best years doing...nothing. No offense. Do you know what I mean?"

I hope she doesn't take it the wrong way. I don't want to hurt her, that's the last thing I want. When I glance up at her, she's staring at me with her mouth hanging open a bit, like she's never heard anything like that before. She swallows and gives a wobbly smile, and I know I've shaken her. She nods. "I...yes. Like I'm puttering around my house wasting my days away as life goes by...it's a scary thought."

"Yeah."

I think the connection between us has strengthened. She's probably never even thought of mentioning this to Ron, but I pointed it out, I saw it, and she's been feeling it. We're often thinking the same things; it's always been like that. She's my best friend. I've never seen her as anything less. More...there have been times when I've not seen her for a while and suddenly do again, and all I want to do is take her in my arms and...I won't let myself finish that thought. But I can't help but laugh at things she says...and sometimes I find myself just wanting to grab her and never, ever let go. It's a strange feeling, and I don't like thinking about it. It's just a constant that I've never questioned. She is not mine, but I am hers. Not that she knows it. I don't dwell on it.

I look over at her, and she looks so tense, so strained, that I can't help reaching out across the table now and touching her hand. She looks at me, those impossibly dark brown eyes shining even in the dim light. Words rise unbidden to my lips. "You don't have to watch it go by." I slide her hand into mine and rub circles on the back of her hand with my thumb, and her breathlessness infects me with a feeling that I consciously do not identify or acknowledge. Her gaze grows steadily more powerful, and as she leans forward the tiniest fraction, I find myself mirroring her. Something is pulling me to her...my jaw trembles slightly, and I lock it shut.

Just as the moment peaks and I am so tense that I'm about to grab her shoulders and do what, I don't know, I hear a creak on the stairs. Hermione jerks her hand away and I reel back in my chair, as she stands up to face the stairwell. I can breathe again. She fumbles with the folds of her apron, trying to hide how badly her hands are shaking. I wonder—is it me that has this effect on her? Or the stress from before? I see two small, slippered feet appear at the top of the stairs, followed by two short legs and a yawning three-year-old boy. My son.

"Daddy," James begins, grinning a wide, innocent grin, "I wanna snack."

"Don't ask me, I'm not in charge here," I reply with a forced grin of my own, and we both turn our eyes to Hermione. She still looks like she's just seen a ghost, and James frowns slightly. She tries to smile but can't quite do it.

"Come hug your aunt," she says, holding out her arms, and he bounces over to her and clambers up onto her lap as she sits back down, burying his face in her skirt. I envy him the closeness to her—_I want to bury my face in her shoulder and feel her arms around me_—and feel my collar heating up. I have to keep myself in control, I have for years; now is not the time to stop. As I look at the pair of them, they could be mother and child; if his eyes were just a bit darker like hers, and with brown highlights in his hair...

"C'n I have a snack?" he pleads, wrinkling his nose up at her and making his eyes all big and puppyish.

"What do you say?" she asks with a small smile, and he tries to roll his eyes. He succeeds only in rolling his head around. Unfortunately, I think he's trying to imitate me...

"_Please_ c'n I have a snack?" he reiterates, and she nods. With a little squeak, he hops off her lap and goes about assembling a bowl of cereal for himself. She gets up and helps. I follow the line of her arm as she pulls her wand out of nowhere and flicks the resources back to their respective places, turns to sit back down across from me as James takes the seat at the end of the table and scoops food into his mouth with all the speed and decorum of a ravenous werewolf.

Hermione stands up again—up and down, up and down; she's so restless, and I want to ask why, but can't with James here—and walks over to the sink, looking down at a picture. James asks me if we can play Quidditch tomorrow out back on the mini-pitch Ron and I set up years ago, and I agree absently, my mind not really on the conversation. James follows my gaze to his aunt, and she's leaning forward over the sink now. Her shoulders are tense and bunched. He looks solemnly at me and says with all the authority of his three years, "Sometimes she gets like this when you c—"

"I distinctly remember you getting put to bed already," she says, deliberately cutting him off with an _I-caught-you_ look on her face. He grins sheepishly and nods, taking one last big bite of cereal before sliding off the chair and waving, then scampering back upstairs to our room. What was he going to say that she didn't want me to hear? When I...what? Did I do something wrong? It is silent for a few seconds. I delay speaking until I know she isn't going to, and then venture a guess that I hope isn't correct.

"When I come over?"

Her eyes squeeze shut before she looks at me and tries to laugh. "Kids. I don't know what he—"

"It's okay to tell me, Hermione."

She chokes off, not expecting my directness. "_Accio bowl_." It zooms into her hands and she turns around to place it carefully in the sink, then leans over the basin and stares out the window. I have to know now. I get up out of my chair and walk around to her side of the table, standing behind her, staring over her shoulder at her reflection in the glass pane. She has a grimly determined look on her face; no other words for it. My heart aches to see her like this. Manly as that may not be—Ginny would laugh at me if I said something like that in her presence—it's true. I feel helpless.

"Are you alright?" I know she's not, but maybe she'll tell me if I ask...

"Nnh—yes. I'm fine." Her arms start to shake slightly from the pressure she's putting on them to keep herself still, and I can't stand by and watch her do this to herself. It hurts that she doesn't trust me enough to tell me what's going on. I take a small step toward her, resisting the impulse to touch her.

"You're not fine. Since when do you lie to me?"

"I'm not lying. I'm just married."

I frown. "What? Hermione, what are you talking about?"

Suddenly she whirls around to face me, and the desperate look in her eyes scares me. She presses herself back up against the sink as if trying to keep as far away from me as possible. "Nothing! Nevermind! Please go away; I can't deal with this right now!"

"Can't deal with this, or with me?" I have a feeling I'm the cause of her distress, or at least a factor. As her eyes widen even further my suspicion is confirmed.

"This! With this! Just—something happened today—I'm stressed, and tired—" she breaks off, trying to put some kind of explanation together. I've never seen her like this before. She's always been so cool under pressure. And now I see tears forming in her eyes, and as I take another step forward she shrinks back. Well, too bad; the need to calm her down is overwhelming now, and I reach out and pull her to me, encircling her with my arms, tucking her head under my chin and murmuring soothing words into her hair. Her body shudders, wracked with stifled sobs. Anger flames up in me at whatever put her into this state. All I want to do is pick her frail form up in my arms and cradle her, keep her safe from the world, like a man should do for his..._sister-in-law_.

The hated words return to me, and I close my eyes. _She's my best friend's wife_. I try miserably to ignore the familiar sinking feeling that always accompanies that remembered fact, and focus on comforting her now. Maybe being direct will work better. "Look...what's wrong?"

She shoves me away. I stare in alarm down at her flashing dark eyes. "NOTHING. Nothing I can do anything about, anyway. Because everything is so damned _perfect_, I can't fix the one thing that's _not_."

"What _is_ wrong?" She still won't tell me. I move as if to pull her close again—she needs it, she _does_—but she puts a firm hand on my chest, keeping me an arm's length away.

"Stop trying to comfort me. I can deal with this on my own. I have been for—however long, it doesn't matter, all that matters is that you please leave me alone so I can calm down and we can go on and pretend this didn't happen."

I'm very confused now. "You're not making any sense. Pretend _what_ didn't happen?"

She pauses, collecting herself perhaps. "I—I'm not feeling well," she starts to say, but I cross my arms over my chest and cut her off. I don't want to hear anymore bullshit.

"Don't start with me, Hermione. I know you inside and out." She blushes furiously for some reason. "What? See that, right there—you won't even look at me. What did James say—you sometimes get like this when I come over? Did I do something wrong...?"

"No!" she wails, finally meeting my gaze. "You did everything _right_. You always have. That's...that's the problem."

That makes no sense—until she gasps and covers her mouth with one hand. _She has feelings for me._ It crashes over me like a cold wave. My eyes widen. Disbelief fills me, and shock. I see the rising panic in her eyes and I subconsciously prepare to stop her if she tries to bolt. A ridiculous thought, but there nonetheless. "You..." I can't make anything else come out of my mouth. My throat has stopped working, my voice is thick. I must look an utter idiot.

All these years, and I never knew? When at night I lie in bed next to Ginny and imagine her hair is brown instead of red, and wilder? When I have spent at least the past three years deliberately trying _not_ to ask myself why I spend so much of my time thinking about a woman who is not my wife? How...how _dare_ she keep this from me? Why did she wait until now, until there are three children in our lives that ensure we will never be able to be anything more than what we are?

"Harry..." she breathes, voice raw and full of emotion. I don't know what to do. "I'm sorry. I should never have—"

"What? Should never have told me?" I am inexplicably angry.

"I haven't—"

"But you—you—" I can't get the words out any more than she can. I force my tongue around them. "You have...feelings? For m—isn't that—isn't that what you—" I stop; she's closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. I glare at her.

"Sorry for what?"

"Everything," she whispers miserably, and I rake my hand through my hair in frustration. What does she expect me to do? "I'm so sorry. I'm sorry—I should—can't we just pretend this never—?"

"How long?" I ask abruptly, wanting to know. She hesitates.

"Since the end of the war."

I reel back for the third time tonight, stumbling against the table behind me, grabbing the edge of it for support. My mind spins in shock. Since...since...the war...the first time I ever found myself gripped with truly paralyzing fear for someone else's life was when I was locked in the Malfoys' basement, hearing her terrible screams from the floor above. It took every ounce of willpower that I had to force myself to think clearly, and I only could because that was the only way to save her. Ron was louder because I had more self-discipline.

I look at her now. Putting all the puzzle pieces together. She's never _really_ busy when I visit...she just needs to keep herself away from me. Is it that...strong? A thought suddenly occurs to me, and I frown. "So...what about Ron? You just never—he was what, a convenient shag until I lost interest in Ginny?" I didn't mean it to come out sounding that harsh, but what's said is said.

She recoils, and I know I've hurt her deeply. "That is possibly the worst thing you have ever said to me," she says quietly. I don't apologize—I have to know if she was just stringing my best mate along.

"Well?"

She takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Ron was not a convenient shag. He was right for me at the time. I loved him. I love him—just—not the way it should be. He was...he was _there_. He loved me, and it was _supposed_ to happen. Everyone knew it. Even I—I was already half fallen for him until that—that last year, during the search for the Horcruxes, and then...things...changed."

My chest feels tight. My heart can't _take_ hearing this. Not now. "You can't _tell_ me this, Hermione! I—I'm _married!_ _You're_ married, for god's sake, to my best—our best friend! What do you expect me to—"

"I don't expect anything," she says as her eyes fill up with tears at last. "Nothing. I didn't even—I never meant to tell you at all—it's just tonight, my head's all—I'm so _sorry_, Harry, please don't hate me—"

"_Hate_ you?" My mouth drops open in pure surprise. How could I hate her for loving me when I can accuse myself of the same? "_Hate_ you?" I say again. "_You?_"

She takes a deep breath. "Look. Please. I'm asking you as your friend, to just let this go and pretend I never—"

My gaze is fixed on the general area of her knees now. I hold up a hand to stop her. "What I don't understand," I say slowly, "is why you never...did anything about it. During that year with the Horcruxes, especially. You never told anyone, you never—"

"You were happy."

I frown. Ginny and I had broken up for that last year during the war. "I wasn't with—"

"Anyone could see you still wanted to be with her. And sure enough, right after everything was over, up she ran and when I saw how happy you were...I couldn't mess that up," she says simply, as though there is nothing else in the world she could possibly say or have done. "Besides, I'd already all but promised myself to Ron at that point. And I did have feelings for him. It just—"

I hold up a finger to stop her again, then slowly raise my head to meet her eyes. "Ten _years?_" She nods. "Without one word." She nods again. "That's more than a third of our lives. And half the time we've known each other." She nods a third time, and I am reminded of one of those dolls that sit on the car dashboard; all they do is bob their heads up and down. All the anger seeps out of me and a rush of strong emotion fills the space. "I wish you'd said something."

She looks at me in confusion. I hope I don't have to say what I'm feeling. I've never been any good at it. But this is different; her husband, my best friend, is asleep upstairs. My son is asleep upstairs. Her daughter is asleep upstairs. This isn't some awkward fifteen-year-old asking another to take a trip to Hogsmeade with him. This is two married people each with children and spouses that are brother and sister. _Sister-in-law._ I was stupid; we were both stupid. But we got ourselves into this mess, and we have to figure out a way around it.

Suddenly she looks immensely tired. "I never thought you'd find out this way. Here, now; it sounds so ridiculous and childish. I'm sorry I put you through this; if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, and sort of...pretend this never happened...I would be grateful."

I stare at her incredulously. I want to die, and at the same time, I want to sing. I'm sure it would be horrible if I sang, though. No one wants to hear that.

She clears her throat and straightens up, brushing imaginary dust off her apron. "I have to go to bed. I hope there's still another vial of Draught in the bathroom, or else I'll never get to sl—"

I kiss her.

It's everything I have told myself the past three years that I don't want. Three years; that's a long time to fool yourself. She is soft and warm and tender and I'm filled with the need to tell her that I...but I feel gentle pressure on my chest as she pushes me away and closes her eyes. My hands lift of their own accord and slip into her hair, reveling in the feel of it. Her fingers press against my chest again and curl around the place above my heart. She shakes her head.

"No. It was too late ten years ago, it's too late now."

Something tears inside me at her truthful words. "Hermione..." My voice is low and husky in the stillness. _I lo_...

She sighs, eyes still closed, hands still lying on my chest. "I waited for you to say my name like that for god knows how long. I don't care how stupid that sounds. But it was too late for us the second you saw Ginny that day."

After a moment of childishness—_no, please_—I nod, acknowledging the bitter truth of it. The reality of it. I'm surprised to feel my eyes stinging, and when she looks up at me and sees the shameful tears starting to form, she looks surprised, too. I _never_ cry. I can't remember the last time I did. She lifts a finger and wipes away a drop that leaked its way out of my eye. I lean my cheek into the touch before she lowers her hand.

"I'm pregnant."

My eyes widen and my jaw falls open. "Are you serious?"

She nods again. "It's a boy, I know it is. Mother's instinct. I want to name him Harry...though it might get confusing with two of you around...maybe just something starting with an H."

I look down at her, moved. Another tear starts to escape and I rub my eyes beneath my glasses, blinking furiously to rid myself of the rest of them. She tells me things silently with her gaze, and I understand. I want the baby to be mine, too.

"Hermione...we could have—"

"I know." I don't think she wants to hear me say it. I still haven't told her that I lo...I can't even say it to myself. It's too hard to admit. Maybe someday I'll get up the courage...but it doesn't matter now, and it won't matter then. Ron, Ginny, James, Albus and Rose stand firmly between us like a reef between boat and shore. Maybe someday things will be different...I can hope...but there's no way. We'll have to deal with it like the adults we are. I privately resolve never to touch her again, for fear that I won't be able to conceal my feelings. I want her to know one thing, though.

"I would have been everything for you that you wanted me to be." I mean it, and say it seriously. _I lo..._

"I know." And I think she does.

_...ve you._


	3. Age 39: Harry

**A/N: Eleven years after that fateful night, twenty-one years after the end of DH (and two years after the epilogue); Harry and Hermione have spent the time getting used to not being together, and have fallen into an easy relationship that goes deeper than friendship, growing closer all the time (see my complimentary story, 'Dishes', for a short example). All five children between the two families are off at Hogwarts now. It is nearing the end of September, the first year that all five are away. Harry's POV.**

**Now that work's done and I've fixed my case of Block, I should update much faster. :) Thanks for reading. And don't worry; there will be light at the end of the tunnel. Eventually. No great victory is easily won.**

--

_That lying, manipulative bitch._

I can't believe it. I can't believe she would to this to me. To our _children_. Oh, god, the kids...

I turn on the spot and feel the all-too-familiar tight squeeze and encroaching darkness, then pop into existence at the front gate leading up to the Burrow. Blood is roaring in my ears, my heart pounding furiously. _I can't believe her._

There are lights on downstairs, I see through the night. What time _is_ it? Probably close to half past nine. All rational thoughts have flown out of my head at this point; I don't care what time it is. I'm not going back there anytime soon. Ahead, I can see Ron and Hermione moving around in the kitchen. I know something's wrong—even from out here I can hear the yelling. It must be a night for having rows. Suddenly the door bursts open and Ron dives through the opening, stumbling outside with his arms over his head, and slams it shut behind him. He ducks as something solid crashes through the window, breaking the glass and then itself shattering on the ground. He looks up and sees me standing here, then starts jogging toward me. I wonder dimly what they've argued so violently about.

"Harry! I was just thinking of dropping in on you," he pants, and I lift an eyebrow. I start to move forward in the direction of the house but he stops me with a hand on my arm. "Wouldn't go in there if I were you, mate," he says; I recklessly don't care. I wouldn't mind having something thrown at my head right now. Might dull the pain and help ease the shock.

"I'll take a raging Hermione over your mad sister any day," I inform him, and he straightens defensively as I knew he would.

"What'd you two fight about now?"

I grimace darkly and tell him.

--

I love moments like this. Just the two of us, snug as bugs in rugs in front of our grand old fireplace under one blanket, watching the flames without a care in the world. It makes me feel comfortingly Muggleish. Ginny sighs and puts her head briefly on my shoulder, then lifts it and asks, "Do you miss having the kids around?" I nod in fervent affirmation.

"Like mad. I keep thinking, 'Oh, I have to go tuck Lily in,' but I don't."

"Yes."

"I dunno whether it's a good thing she was so excited to go off to Hogwarts...like does she think we're not good parents?"

"No, Harry. Everyone's excited their first time."

"Yeah, well...I miss them all."

"They haven't even been gone two nights."

"Still. Want to have another one?" I joke, and brush the hair off of her neck. I kiss the bared spot and draw my fingers lightly across her collarbone, trying playfully to get her going, but she shoves me away, clearly not amused. I sigh heavily and rake my fingers through my hair. I can't remember the last time we—well. "What's the matter?" I ask, and it takes great self-control not to add "now?" She won't meet my eyes, just stares into the fire. An ominous feeling settles rather uncomfortably in my stomach and refuses to lift, even at her next words.

"I've been offered a job. It's much better than this one, the pay's better, and I'd get more recognition, more responsibilities..."

I grin in surprised delight. "That's brilliant! Congratulations, Gin, that's terrific! What's the new job?"

"Head of the Auror Office..."

I exclaim loudly.

"...in the French Ministry for Magic."

The bottom drops out of my stomach and I sit in shocked silence for a minute. I ask stupidly, "In France?" She nods wordlessly. I feel a wave of sympathy for her disappointment. It must be terrible to have to turn down such an amazing opportunity.

"I was actually offered the position three years ago, originally, but Lily and Albus weren't at Hogwarts yet, so I declined." I nod; it makes sense.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I ask, and she appears to be steeling herself against something before she speaks.

"I didn't want to say anything because I knew you'd be stupid about it and tell me not to go."

...What? I'm confused. Is she trying to start a fight here? "Look, Ginny, it's a fantastic offer and all, but you're not seriously thinking about _taking_ it, are you? I mean...our whole lives are here. The kids, me—?"

Apparently I've set her off somehow. "See? This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you before now! You don't want me to get ahead in life! You always have to be the best, don't you? I'm finally going to be recognized—this is the opportunity of a _lifetime_ and you don't care, because all you think about is yourself."

I'm stunned into speechlessness. Where on earth is she pulling this from? I decide to attempt to keep the conversation civil. "Gin—I'm not trying to hold you back, I'm just asking you to think about what you're considering here. Leaving the family behind? You won't be able to take summers off, you'd never see your own children—weren't you just telling me you missed them—?"

"Considering?" she interrupts, finally looking at me. I nod.

"Yeah. Just—think about what you're asking—"

"_Asking_ you?" she exclaims. "I don't need your _permission_ for this, Harry. I'm not asking, I'm telling. Maybe I wasn't clear—I've already accepted the offer. I thought you might be supportive and happy for me, but apparently not."

"You—you've WHAT?" I yelp. "You accepted a job in another _country_ without even _telling me?_ What the hell is the _matter_ with you? Don't you think this should have been something we discussed for a long time, together?"

"I don't need your _permission_—"

"What kind of marriage is this? You can't just up and _leave_ as soon as the kids are all packed off to school...what about...what about me? Wouldn't you stay here for me? I'm your husband!"

"Where I'm living in your shadow?" she asks coldly, and I want to tear my hair out. What the _hell_ is wrong with her?

"Gin—Ginny, come on, this is _mad_—"

"Come to France with me, then."

I turn my whole body to face her on the couch and search her eyes for any hint that she's joking. It's not there; only cold indifference and firm stubbornness. "Did someone jinx you on a job today?" I ask worriedly, honestly concerned for her, but sadly my theory is proven wrong as her eyes flare up in anger.

"This is the last time I ask, Harry. Are you going to move to France with me?"

I sit, utterly in shock, staring in absolute incredulousness at the woman who's called herself my wife for the past nineteen years. This has come so suddenly, so out of the blue, I don't know what to think. "I can't just go to France—what are you—"

"Please."

"Ginny, no, this is ridiculous, let's just calm down and talk about this for a min—"

"Then I'm leaving you."

"_What? _ Ginny, no—"

"Oh, face it, we haven't been working for years!" she spits, and I actually wince as though she's hit me.

"Please—Gin, you can't just—_please_—"

"OUT!" she yells, and her wand appears in her hand out of nowhere. I feel myself being yanked by my ankle up into the air upside-down by an invisible hand, my glasses slipping to the end of my nose before I grab them. Some remote, detached part of my brain thinks _Talk about abusive relationships_. I feel oddly separate from my body; I can hear myself yelling, pleading with her to see reason as she marches me out of the living room and into the front hall. She's yelling too. I can barely hear her; it's all just noise to me. I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. This can't be it, it's too sudden, there was no fight leading up to it, this is absurd, what is she _thinking_—

And now I'm outside, being dumped on my behind on the cold stone porch, dimly registering the neighbours' lights flicking on next door in response to all our yelling as Ginny shrieks one final insult at me and slams the door in my face. I get to my feet, shaking, and pound on the door, but it's locked. _Alohomora_ doesn't work. I don't have my house key on me. I check under the welcome mat for the spare, but apparently she put forethought into this, because it's not there.

The night seems deathly quiet around me now, pressing in, and through the shock of what just happened I decide to go to the Burrow. And now the anger starts to set in.

_That bitch._

--

Ron stares at me in disbelief as I finish talking. "She never told you until tonight?"

I gape. "You KNEW?"

"She said she'd already talked to you about moving, but not to say anything to anyone because it was a surprise for the family!"

My mind reels and I clutch the gate to steady myself. _Secrets and lies...that's what our relationship has been built on. That, and the love of our children. Nothing more._ I look at Ron seriously. "This is the end of our marriage."

Leaving him standing horrified at the gate, I trudge over to the house and go inside, only to find myself in a veritable war zone. Hermione is throwing everything she can get her hands on in every direction she can see. I immediately whip out my wand and put the Full Body-Bind curse on her, then go about restoring her kitchen. Once everything is as it should be I lift the hex and calmly ask what's wrong.

"Ron is a spineless, heartless troll, that's what!" she growls, and I frown. "You know the trip I've been planning for the past year? The one to Australia over Christmas break, to visit my parents who I haven't seen in twenty years because they were _stupid_ enough to want to pull me out of the magical world after the war because they were too afraid for my safety? Who I had to send back to Australia with their memories re-modified after weeks of arguing, because they were refusing to see me and were happier when they thought they didn't have a daughter? Who I want my children to meet before they die? _That trip?_"

I nod, afraid to interrupt. I know full well what she's talking about. Her parents have always been a very touchy subject, thanks to the heartbreaking thing she had to do after the war...

"Well, _Molly_ doesn't _approve_ of it! You remember that row she and my mum had, right before I sent them back? About keeping me here or not? Well, she doesn't think her grandkids should be exposed to that sort of close-mindedness or some such thing, and last week she apparently went to Ron and told him there would be 'serious consequences' if we went through with this visit! And tonight, Ron informs me, out of _nowhere_, after a _year_ of my planning this thing that means the absolute _world_ to me, that he doesn't think it's a good idea for the kids to go, and he'll stay here with them while I go see my parents by myself! And I asked him why, and he said because his _mother_ doesn't approve! His _mother_ doesn't approve, so _ickle Ronniekins_ won't do it! That spineless, good-for-nothing _pushover_—"

At this, she looks wildly around, grabs a plate and throws it straight at the wall, smashing it spectacularly. I instantly put it back together with a flick of my wand, and she glares at me before seeming to cool off a little. "So why are you here, then?" she asks edgily. "Did Ron call you to come placate me?"

"No," I say, and a grim look comes over my face. I tell her about Ginny, and she looks more and more stricken as I go on. By the time I've finished she's leaning on the back of a chair for support. She looks about as mortified as I feel. "I don't want her to leave," I say quietly, and sit down in a chair of my own at the kitchen table. "The kids..." my voice breaks off, I can't continue. I glance up at her for a moment and I see the awkward wish to comfort me in her eyes. I haven't touched her in eleven years. She can't exactly come round and give me a hug and say 'Oh, that's too bad'. I fiddle with my sleeve cuffs for a minute, then look up at her again, feeling helpless. "I don't know what to do. What can I do? She's leaving. She's going off to France. I don't know if she wants me to try and stop her, or come with her...I can't, though. The kids—how is she going to tell them? How am I going to explain it to them when they ask why she's going? Oh, god..." The thought never even enters my mind that she'll want to take them with her and leave me here. That's too outrageous, even for her.

Hermione pauses, then picks a miraculously unbroken plate up off the counter and holds it out to me. I blink, then laugh dryly, thinking, why the hell not? Might do me some good. I take it from her and turn towards a blank spot on the wall, swing my arm back, and let fly. The plate smashes against the wall. I'm surprised at how deliciously satisfying the feeling of destruction is. She fixes it in a second and hands me another one, which I also delight in breaking. After I've gone through five plates, I offer her one, and using my wand and a squeeze-bottle of ketchup, I paint a target over the spot I've been using. She laughs and throws her plate, and I repair it and put it at the bottom of the stack on the table between us.

I feel totally surreal. This is like a scene from a sitcom or something; two people madly dashing plates against a wall to let out anger and frustration. After a while we're both laughing, and my mood begins to lift a little in spite of myself. Then Hermione says, "This one's for all the times Ron's let his mother dictate his life to him," and throws a plate. I pause and look at her, and she looks back at me, determined not to let it ruin the mood. I pick up a plate.

"This is for every stupid fight Ginny started when I bought a kid something." The crash of breaking china soothes my soul. We trade back and forth now, breaking a plate for everything wrong with our respective spouses.

"For every time he refused to do the dishes." _Crash_.

"For every little thing she always found to criticize me about." _Crash._

"For never calling to tell me he was working late." _Crash._

"For every time she told James to get out of it when he tried to stop a fight between us." _Crash._ Hermione stops and glances at me after this one, eyebrows raised, and I nod. "It's happened more than once." She sighs and shakes her head.

"For every apology he didn't make." _Crash._

"For every stupid time she kicked me out of my own house." _Crash._

After a while, the front door opens. Hermione and I turn around, plates raised, and see Ron standing embarrassedly in the doorway. He cringes as he takes in the sight of plates in our hands, the stack between us, the target on the wall, and then he figures out what we've been doing. He looks very sheepish and apologetic.

"I could throw this at your head, but I won't," Hermione says solemnly to him. "You're lucky Harry's cheered me up a bit." I feel a warmth start to spread through me at her words, and I firmly ignore it as I always do. To my surprise, Ron winces. She gives him a questioning look but he shakes his head.

"It's nothing—just stupid ideas Ginny put in my head."

I rise to my feet. "You went to Godric's Hollow?"

Ron nods and explains. "I went over there to shake some sense into her, maybe get her to see what she was doing. Well, she just yelled at me for taking your side, Harry, then broke down into tears saying that she thinks you're having an affair with someone—"

"_What?_" I bellow.

"I know, I know—and when I told her that was bull, she got mad again and told me off for talking about things I don't know about, and shouted many rude things about you, and then..." Ron trails off, looking like he'd rather eat his own tongue than tell me the rest. "She said...er...she's leaving on the twelfth, and to tell you that she doesn't want you—er—setting foot in the house till after that. Sorry, Harry."

I sit back down in my chair with a thud, stunned once again into silence. It is almost painfully awkward in the room until Hermione speaks.

"Well, you'll stay here until then," she says quietly but firmly. I start to protest about not wanting to intrude, but my argument is admittedly rather feeble, and she won't hear any of it. "Right, Ron?" she asks, turning to him, and he swallows with difficulty, then nods.

"Yeah, mate. It'll...it'll be just the three of us again, like old times."

"It'll be just the three of us from now on," I murmur, and silence spins out between us again. I hear a sniffle from my right; Hermione's in tears. Knowing I have only seconds to leave the room before I start crying myself, I get up and walk out the door, needing the fresh air to cool my senses and calm my mind.

The stars are out and bright in their thousands. A sliver of moon hangs just above the tree line, shining against the dark sky. It's a bit cold. I wish for a moment that I had a coat, then decide the chill will be good for me. I can't believe this is happening to me. To us. I always thought we could work it out. Stay together for the kids' sakes at least. Maybe she felt differently; '_Oh, face it, we haven't been working for years!_' Is she really that bitter? Have I not done enough for her, worked hard enough to keep our marriage from falling apart as it's threatened to do for most of the time we've been together? Aren't James, Albus and Lily reason enough for her to stay? I'll have to raise them on my own...I don't know how to handle three preteens by myself, and it'd be madness for me to try. Lily's eleven, Albus is thirteen, James is fifteen...I don't know how I'm going to tell them what happened, much less move forward and be strong for them...

It hasn't been all bad. I loved Ginny. When we were younger I'd race home from Quidditch practices just to see her, and her smile would light up the room as I burst in the door. I don't know what happened, where we went wrong, or why. Somewhere along the way everything turned sour. Spontaneous picnics on the beach faded into memory as in later years, we just stayed home unless we were taking the kids out somewhere. The romance was gone. The spark was gone. I stopped feeling that sense of elation that I was going to see her again at the end of each day. I found myself turning to the only woman that had never done me wrong—and consciously denied to myself any inklings that what I felt was more than friendship. Ten years into my relationship with Ginny, nine years into our marriage, I acted on those till-then denied feelings, one night when I was particularly tired of my wife's antics. That night could have cost me everything; however, I ended up discovering that Hermione had loved me for even longer than I'd loved her, and the memory of that one, bittersweet kiss still burns. We made the decision to stay with our respective partners, regardless of how we felt, for the sake of the children.

I've spent the past eleven years since that night trying to accustom myself to the strange relationship we now share. It's difficult sometimes, predictably, but the absolute lack of physical contact makes things easier. I think the kids have noticed, but they either shrugged it off long ago as an inexplicable adult oddity or don't care at all. I don't want to have to make up a reason years down the road, once they _do_ start to care.

I hope Ginny changes her mind and stays. Miserable as we make each other, we have a family to take care of together. They deserve both a mother and father. _I can't believe her._ She's knowingly destroying everything we've made for them. There won't be a whole, happy household for them to come home to anymore, if she leaves. All I can do is hope she doesn't.

I take a few more slow, deep breaths and turn to head back inside. I open the door to find Ron and Hermione sitting at the kitchen table, glasses in hand, an opened bottle of Firewhisky sitting between them. I'm mildly surprised to see Hermione matching her husband drink for drink. Ron offers me a glass but I shake my head. Much as I'd love to drown my sorrows in alcohol, it's engraved in my brain that drinking while depressed is about the worst thing you can do. "I'm going to owl Ginny," I croak, throat dry. Hermione looks pained, and opens her mouth to say something but Ron hushes her. I go into the living room with a quill, ink and parchment, sit down on the couch and start penning a long letter to her. The words come slowly at first, and the writing is halting, but it gets easier. At last I sign my name at the bottom and give it a once-over. I'm bizarrely tempted to give it to Hermione for perusal; after all, this is pretty much the most important letter of my life.

_Ginny,_

_Please don't just crumple this up before reading it. Hear me out._

_Maybe we're not perfect. Maybe I haven't appreciated you enough, maybe I haven't respected you enough. Maybe we haven't been the most civilized couple; maybe we fight together more than we laugh together. But still, somehow, we lasted twenty-one years together. That's a damn long time to throw away on account of a job offer. Three children, well on their way to growing up, need their mother. I need you. I'm sorry that I've been careless with you, senseless and unkind. I don't know how I could have been so ignorant, that I let the situation come to this. Will James grow up without someone to teach him about girls? Will Albus have to sing himself to sleep every night in the summer? Will Lily find herself surrounded by boys, as you were growing up, without even a mother to turn to?_

_We've had good times, you and I. Do you remember, back when we were their ages, how you had a crush on me for years? Do you remember the day you won the Quidditch House Cup, and I kissed you right in front of everybody? I got so jealous of Dean that year...couldn't stand the thought of you with him or anyone but me. We used to want to run away together, take a month off and go to Greece and laugh about the looks on everyone's faces when we came back home. It wasn't always bad. We can bring the playfulness back into our lives if we try, I know we can. It's you and me, Gin. We started a family and we're going to finish it together. Maybe all we needed was to have a shock like this to bring us both back to our senses. I hope so._

_Please consider staying, for the kids' sakes as much as mine. We need you, here._

_Love, Harry_

Rubbing my eyes wearily, I read the letter over one more time. I think it should be longer, but I can't think of anything else to say. I walk over to Romulus's perch and stroke his feathers to wake him up, then tie the parchment to his leg and tell him to deliver it to Ginny in Godric's Hollow; I swear he just nodded at me before flying out the window. I watch as he soars out into the still-darkening sky until he disappears behind a cloud. Turning away, I collapse onto the couch to wait for her reply, if she sends one. My head is heavy and it feels like a weight is sitting on my chest, shortening my breath. I am vividly reminded of Dobby waking me up in the middle of the night by sitting on me during my second year at Hogwarts. I wonder briefly if Ron and Hermione have any Sleeping Draught. I doubt it; Ron's such a heavy sleeper anyway, and I'm sure their kids inherited it from him.

In light of Ginny's recent explosion, my tired, undisciplined mind can't help thinking that now it will be easier for me to love Hermione. Even through all these years, yes, I still do. While it was impossible to admit to myself at first, I have long since come to terms with it. Ginny was not so far off when she wildly accused me tonight of being unfaithful; but the affair I'm having is an emotional one, not physical. I don't think she really suspects, though. I'm pretty sure she was just trying to get Ron on her side. While not wanting to sound accusatory, I must say she does that a lot.

I have learned, over time, to quell the thoughts of Hermione that begin to rise whenever I'm idle. Eleven years is a long time to know that the one you love loves you back, but to also know that both of you are unable to act on it. I put it quite nicely to myself that night, if I remember correctly; our families stand firmly between us like a reef between boat and shore. I stare blindly at the wall now. Even though I am not happy with Ginny, there is _truly_ nothing I want more right now than for my letter to have changed her mind about leaving me. I may be wholeheartedly in love with my sister-in-law, but my wife is the mother of my children. I _adore_ my children. I'm so proud of them, each and every one. James is just like his grandfather, or so I hear from letters from various people at the school. We've all stayed in touch with Neville Longbottom, of course, all these years; he's Professor of Herbology and Head of Gryffindor House, and he very kindly sends me regular missives about my offspring. James is quite the outgoing little socialite now. He's friends with just about everyone in the school, regardless of age, and as I've known he would since he was small, he draws people to him like moths to a flame. Surprisingly, however, despite his enthusiasm for life he's not as much a lady-killer as his younger brother; even at age thirteen, Albus is already dropping girls like flies. Must be those looks he inherited from me. Black hair and green eyes is, apparently, irresistible.

Lily is dreamy and imaginative, so Neville tells me; a joy to teach, he said in his first letter this year. I'm glad she's doing alright away from home. She's never spent so much time away from Ginny and I, and though I've only heard good things, I can't help worrying she'll get homesick.

Which brings me back to this.

_Ginny, you can't leave..._I need her here for them. I'm getting repetitive. I have to distract myself. Ah, to lose myself in thoughts of my children would be so easy...inevitably, though, it would lead me back to thinking about Ginny. Everything I could think about would eventually lead me back to her—not because she is the center of my world, but because she is usually present in everything I do. I lean back on the couch and close my eyes now. I can still clearly remember the feeling of loving her. Her spirit, her fire, her disregard to what other people thought; her reckless attitude that so often matched mine. The youthful passion that had drawn us together, the circumstances that tore us apart, and the victory that brought us back to each other. I thought I was the luckiest man in the world the day I married her. I'd never seen anything so radiantly beautiful when I saw her coming up the aisle all dressed in white. Our wedding was outdoors, like Bill and Fleur's; it wasn't quite the flamboyantly French occasion that their wedding had been, but everyone congratulated her afterwards on the beauty of it. She planned it all, of course. Women have their rituals. I wasn't going to deny her that—and besides, why would I? All I had to do was show up in dress robes and repeat after the minister. Easiest thing in the world. And I got a wife out of the deal.

She was my treasure, my joy. I was never happier than I was in those few first years. We would stay up till odd hours of the night, laughing about our latest escapade and enjoying each other. She was everything I wanted, and more; what other wife shared with her husband the kind of experiences we had been through, during the war? That fierceness that she acquired from those years was what kept our love alive for as long as it was. I still don't know where we went wrong. Sometimes I think it was my fault; that when it started to go bad and I began feeling myself drawn closer to Hermione, my relationship with Ginny soured even further. That's one thing I've always felt guilt over: I can't clearly remember when it was that I fell in love with her. I don't know if it was because things weren't going well with Ginny that I let my heart wander, or if it was _because _I'd fallen for Hermione that my marriage started to fail. I don't think I'll ever know. I'm not sure I want to.

I don't know how long it's been since I sent the letter. I've been sitting here in this stupor for what seems like hours, but could have been minutes or seconds for all I know. Sometimes when I'm lost in thought time passes more quickly than I would have thought possible...

As I drift vaguely in and out of conscious awareness, I am snapped back to the present by a loud tap on the window. My heart leaps up into my throat as I see Romulus sitting on the sill, a package attached to his left leg. I lurch to my feet and open the window for him, then scrabble at the ties to open it. What has she said? Is she going to stay? _The kids_...I couldn't bear their pain if she...and now I've got the strings open, and I'm tearing at the package and pieces of parchment fall into my lap—

—and I fall numbly to my knees on the floor as I read the words _Divorce Forms_ at the tops of the pages. I stare at the evil things, struck dumb. Her signature is scrawled along a line at the bottom of every paper, and the blank lines beneath hers are marked with large X's. For me to sign. She's leaving. She's really going to move to France and leave everything behind. Her family, her _children..._isn't the bond between mother and child supposedly unbreakable? How can she just...not _care?_

It's too much for me. She didn't even write a note, explaining anything...not even two words to spare for me. I've heard of ugly separations before, but this tops it all. After twenty-one years she won't give me anything but her name, written on the bottom of the divorce papers. I feel bitter tears starting to collect in the corners of my eyes. I let them fall. If there's anything worth weeping about, it's when a mother leaves her family.

_I loved you, Ginny Weasley._

This makes me wonder if she ever loved me at all. The evidence before me suggests that she never did. I'm sure she did; we were so happy when we were young. _So happy_...all that's left of those days now are dusty memories. I feel betrayed and hurt. The anger has subsided for now; all I am is sorrowful. _How am I going to explain to them...?_

It takes great effort and strength of will, but I force myself to retrieve the quill and ink I used to write to her however long it was ago from the table beside the couch. My name looks strangely familiar underneath hers, and I remember that this is what the wedding papers looked like, too; our names have come full circle together. I wish things hadn't ended up like this. I would give anything to have her stay for James and Albus and Lily...but she won't. I feel certain now that she won't. Wordlessly I roll the papers back together and tie the string around them, then beckon to Romulus.

"Harry?"

Hermione's soft voice in the doorway makes my head and heart hurt. She comes forward, sees my now-dry eyes slightly reddened from previous tears, and asks gently if what I'm holding is Ginny's reply. I give a mute nod. She carefully takes the package from my hands and reopens it, then gasps quietly as she sees what it is. Ron enters behind her and looks over her shoulder at the forms, making a noise of shock and indignation, and grabs it from her, raking his eyes over it as though he can't believe what it says. I don't blame him. I can hardly believe it myself. It hasn't really sunk in yet, I don't think...though I don't know if it's possible to feel any worse than I do now...

Hermione takes the papers from Ron and hands them back to me, and I tie them to Romulus's leg before sending him off into the night. There is stunned, sad silence for a few minutes as I sit crumpled on the floor, utterly broken, and my two best friends stand over me, unable to think of anything to say. What do you say when your sister leaves your best friend? I can't imagine Ron's guilt. But I'm sure it can't compare to mine. This is all my fault...I should have been more tolerant of her...shouldn't have provoked her all those times before…I stopped doing it a few years ago, but maybe it left a more lasting impression than I'd liked...I can count a hundred things I should have done or shouldn't have done, but regret won't bring her back.

Regret won't bring her back.

"I'll need to owl McGonagall in the morning," I whisper. My voice doesn't work. The other two look down at me, confused. "To ask her to let the kids take a few days off and come home. I'll need to—to explain to them in person—and they'll need to spend some time with her before she leaves..."

They nod above my head in acknowledgement, and I somehow muster up the strength to get to my feet. I turn to face them and can't bear the look in Hermione's eyes. I need her more than ever now, but there's nothing she can do. I wish I could reach out and touch her cheek...I need to feel loved...I need to know that someone will love my children once Ginny's gone, that I'll have someone there with me to help them grow up...and I know she wants to be here for me, but again, there's nothing she can do. Not right now, anyways. I nod to them, throat constricted, and head upstairs to the room they keep ready for me. I don't know if I'm going to be able to face going back to the house in Godric's Hollow and living in it by myself, without her; however much we fought, she was there, and she was company. It will be empty without her, with no kids for ten months of the year.

A thought crosses my mind as I get into my bed. I'm the oldest Quidditch player in the international league, as of now; thirty-nine is ancient in the world of sports. Viktor Krum retired when he was thirty-seven. I'm two years older than he was. Maybe it's my time to quit the league and perhaps go teach at Hogwarts. McGonagall offered me the Defense Against the Dark Arts position back when I was twenty-five; she always reminds me that the offer still stands. Professor Mirando is apparently itching to retire. It's an attractive thought—I'd be around my children all year long, I'd be able to impart my wisdom upon today's youth (don't I sound like Dumbledore now)...and I've always loved Hogwarts. I also rather think that my students will listen to me and respect me more than other teachers, because—well—of who I am. Boy-Who-Conquered, et cetera. May have been twenty-odd years ago, but though the fever's died off, the fame hasn't. I do hope I'm not too intimidating a presence.

I'll ask McGonagall about it when I owl her about the kids tomorrow. With that last thought, I drift off to a fitful sleep, and I don't wake until dawn.


	4. Age 40: Harry

**A/N: One year after Ginny left for France; during the time, Harry played his final game of competitive Quidditch, winning the World Cup for England and then making official his retirement from the league, to widespread mourning among sports fans. He accepted an offer of the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts, and started working at the beginning of the new school year. It is now late October.**

**Have hope for our heroes. Life isn't over until it's over.**

--

_**Tuesday**_

I think many teachers in the world would say marking is the worst part of the job. I'm of a different opinion; I rather like reading the different students' answers to the questions I pose. I made it a point to make sure I never give my students _too_ much homework; I remember my time at that age well. And I've always thought that quality is preferable over quantity, anyway.

If I were to say that I'm the current favourite professor at Hogwarts, I must impress upon the listener that it would not be just an over-inflated ego speaking. Students hang off my every word. It was embarrassing at first, I admit. But, having upwards of twelve different classes to teach, students paying me solid attention has proved to be not such a bad thing. My students (of all ages) do things much more quickly than I did when I was their age, and the same goes for the rest of my old classmates. I won't flatter myself to say that it's the way I teach; I strongly suspect that they think they just can't afford to _not_ listen to me. Apparently I'm still a legend.

If I wasn't teaching this particular class, lesson planning would be a nightmare. With everyone—or almost everyone—working stupidly hard and performing to the actual best of their abilities, I might get worried that I'm going to run out of things to teach them by the end of the year. It's alright though; that'll just give them more review classes before exams. That would have been nice to have when I was in school.

I made the decision to start teaching fifth-years to do silent spells. It's a year earlier than I learned how to do them, but my education in this particular subject was so spotty that I don't think I should base my lessons around what I learned each year, and I think they're ready for it, anyway.

I sigh heavily and force myself to focus. Can't allow my mind to go off on tangents; got to concentrate on marking. I should follow my students' examples. It's ridiculous how well everyone does in my classes. Almost everyone, anyway; a certain young fifth-year named James Potter has somehow got it in his head that as it's his father teaching the class, he doesn't need to _try_. I stare despairingly down at his essay about unspoken spells on my desk, taking in the nearly-illegible scrawl that is his handwriting, the incorrect spelling of several key words, and more than a few actual wrong points. A quick look-over of the whole thing tells me that though his _intent_ is right, his delivery is atrocious. I dip my quill in the well of scarlet ink beside the essay and mark down the _A_ for _Acceptable_, writing underneath, _Work on your delivery._ I do try my best to be fair to all students, and no one yet has accused me of showing my children, niece or nephew any favouritism.

I sit back in my chair and laugh aloud at myself. I sound like the stuffiest old git as ever was, even in my own head. Over the past year and a bit I've been trying to improve my grammar and vocabulary and all, so I won't give students bad speaking habits, and I definitely seem to have done a job on myself, haven't I? Now my thoughts are oh-so-well organized, and I choose my words with an almost Shakespearean flamboyancy. I hope I don't sound like such a pompous ass out loud.

There's a knock on my office door. "Come in." James's essay was the last to mark; I have his class next, and a free twenty minutes or so to spare before. The door cracks open and a small red-haired head peeks through. I smile. "Lily." As ever, the sight of my precious daughter fills me with warmth. She slips into the room, closing the heavy door behind her, and shuffles forward as though she's done something wrong. I recognize all too well the slightly guilty look on her face. My smile widens. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"I said I had to use the toilet."

"Lily, you shouldn't skip class just to come see me."

"You're always busy else, Da."

I regard her sternly, but not overly so. I know this is a father-daughter thing, not a teacher-student thing. I'm still learning how to navigate the delicate balance between being a professor and a father to my children. "What's so urgent, then?"

She is silent for a moment, fiddling with the ends of her sleeves, before speaking quietly. "There's...someone who keeps bothering me. He won't _stop_. It was just annoying at first, but now he's getting nastier."

I lean back in my chair. Difficult subject to handle. On the one hand, I want to leap to my baby girl's defense and squash whoever's causing her discomfort like a bug; on the other, I'm a professor. She doesn't have any proof and I haven't seen it happen. I can't just go around handing out Detentions to any old person, just on the word of another student; that's hardly fair, however much I'd like to. I ask her carefully (not wanting to sound patronizing) if she thinks it could possibly be because the boy likes or liked her, and she scorned him. Lily blushes and shakes her head.

"No, I don't think so. He's a lot older than I am."

This makes me angry. If he's so much older, why is he picking on a twelve-year-old? If there's one thing I hate, it's bullies, and they're almost always cowards. It instantly reminds me of my childhood with Dudley. I rake my fingers back through my hair (still messy and wild; nothing I've found in my lifetime has been able to tame it), sighing. "Much as you know I'd love to get my hands on the culprit"—Lily giggles—"there's nothing I can do unless I see it happening."

She sighs. "I know. It's just so stupid, I don't know why he does it...what did I ever do to him?"

"Bullies don't need a reason to pick on someone, sweet. Now, I know you've got it in you to stand up to him, and I'm sure you have—"

"I have! He doesn't _stop!_"

"So maybe it's time to teach him a lesson," I say mildly, and twirl my wand between my fingers. Her eyes go round, and a wide grin spreads across her face. She reminds me painfully in that moment of her mother, the mischievousness giving her that too-familiar glint in her eye that always meant Ginny was up to something she shouldn't be doing. I swallow with difficulty around the sudden lump in my throat—the wound is still not healed—and lean forward, business-like. "Don't let me hear of you starting any fights in the hallways, young lady. Now run off back to class, please."

She nods, understanding my meaning perfectly, and scarpers. I lean back in my chair again and shake my head ruefully. I really shouldn't be encouraging such behaviour in my children, especially when I have to set a good example because I'm a professor. At least I think I've ensured she'll be careful enough not to get caught. Not that that's much better. I'm a terrible influence. No wonder young people like me.

After sitting in sheepish silence for a minute or so, there's a tap on my window. I wonder briefly why the owl didn't come with the morning post as I let it in, and it settles on my desk and sticks out its leg. It's Romulus, Hermione and Ron's owl. Usually Hermione writes me twice a week; small compensation for not having seen her in almost two months, the longest I've gone without seeing her since we were eleven. It's been hard, I admit. I've started taking a drop of Sleeping Draught every night before going to bed. It's just one drop in my tea, so there's no harm of lasting effects, and it makes me fall asleep faster. I've adopted the unfortunate habit of imagining her lying beside me in the minutes before sleep takes me, and my conscience won't let me do that to Ron. He's my best mate. I can't be picturing myself with his wife, even now that my own has been gone for a year.

Snapping the drop-of-wax seal and unrolling the parchment, I see the familiar greeting and the corners of my mouth curve up involuntarily.

_Professor Potter,_

_You buffoon, why haven't you written me back yet? Busy again, I suppose...you must have lots of papers to mark and lessons to plan; no time for little old me. That's alright, I don't mind so much. It's just that while you have so much to do to keep you occupied, I'm sitting here at home without a thing to do except wait for your letters and—well—clean._

_I went in to the Ministry yesterday to talk to Yvonne Gringleton (the head Ministry Healer, if you don't recall) about any available jobs that she might have for me. She was very polite and professional. She said that considering my background in Healing and the fact that last year I passed all the courses I needed to make sure that I was still qualified for a Healing license, she thought she might be able to find something for me. I was hoping to get back into St. Mungo's, obviously, but as they're not hiring at the moment, a job for the Ministry should suit me nicely. Ms. Gringleton said that there were some spots open in the Healing Department there, and that I could expect to be responsible for a good amount of paperwork and perhaps some work on research and experimentation with new methods, testing new developments and that sort of thing, and if I do a good job on all that for a few years, I might be able to have personal lab access and be able to start my own research and develop some approaches of my own. It sounds interesting, I guess. It's not what I'd visualized going back to when I used to think about getting back into the field, but it's work, and it's a start._

_Anyway, to get to my main point, I've decided to take a holiday weekend for myself and come down to see you all at Hogwarts. I know it's a Hogsmeade weekend (because you told me in your last letter), and therefore I'll be able to see everyone when they come out. Except Hugo and Lily, of course. But I'm sure McGonagall won't mind me dropping by the school for an hour or two Sunday morning, as I'll be in the neighbourhood, so to speak. Ron really wants to come too, but he's completely swamped this week at work and he's sure he'll have to go in on Saturday, so no holidays for him, unfortunately. He was so looking forward to seeing everyone. I did ask if he wanted me to wait and visit another weekend so he can come too, but he won't hear of it. That's Ron, isn't it? Always the gentleman. Well—sometimes anyway. Most times._

_So I'll be seeing you this weekend! Feels like forever since I've seen you...the kids I grew used to not having around, eventually, but you've always been...well. I'll see you soon._

_Write back quickly this time. I'll have no excuses, either._

_Hermione_

It is signed with a flourish I've come to know so well that I could probably forge it accurately. I feel a smile burst onto my face. Hermione is coming to see me. She—she's coming to see me. ME. Not Hugo and Rose, not as a mother desperate to see her children...I'm filled with glee. Actual glee. Sounds like a Christmas song lyric: "Silver bells, silver bells, I'm filled with glee in the city..." I don't know. This silly-happy feeling is like waking up and realizing that it's two days until Christmas. That's what I meant. Like I just won the lottery.

Right. Gotta calm down. I'm teaching a class—with my eldest son in it—in five minutes. And I shouldn't be this irrationally excited, anyway—it's just Hermione.

Three words that don't belong together.

I reread the letter, eagerly taking in her neatly written words, and cast around for quill, ink and parchment. My office looks very neat and tidy but it's entirely, uncompromisingly unorganized. I feel it is important to show students and staff an appearance of strict, businesslike ways in my place of work—but the scissors are in the same drawer with the Niffler manual, and that is the least of my organizational problems. So finding said quill, ink and parchment is the work of five minutes rather than fifteen seconds, because I don't want to use my _scarlet_ ink, I want to use my _blue_ ink, and my marking quill is all red-stained. Finally I sit down to pen my response.

_Dear Hermione,_

And the bell rings.

"Damn," I mutter out loud to myself, and leave it at that for now. I levitate the stack of marked essays to float beside me as I walk into the filling classroom and try to look stern to make the fifth-years sweat. Overall the essays were quite good, but I believe in making them feel like everyone else did poorly, so their marks will seem that much better. And, sure enough, I see more than a few apprehensive, guilty and nervous faces staring up at me as they settle in their seats. I won't grin and give it away. With lazy flicks of my wand I send each roll of parchment to its owner, and delight in seeing the relief upon almost every face.

"Aw, come on!" whines a voice near the back of the room, instantly recognizable to all as James. "I actually worked hard on this!"

"And you actually passed! Congratulations, Mr. Potter." The class snickers as my son rolls his eyes, reddening a little. "Now to business. Books away and wands out, please." Everyone grins to their neighbours as they do so. 'Wands out' translates to 'good lesson'. I suppose it's true. "First, a quick question before we begin. Why are silent spells useful?"

I don't even blink when Calicia Martin's hand shoots up into the air in classic Hermione style. She does it every time I ask something. I nod at her, inviting her to share.

"Silent spells give you a second's advantage on your opponent, because they don't know what you're going to do next so they can't block your spell, and even a second's advantage in a fight can mean the outcome, sir," she rattles off, ending a little breathlessly, as though she's just dying to earn my praise. I hesitate for a moment—making her sweat—and then nod.

"Precisely. Five points to Ravenclaw, even though I'm sure you all already knew that." I draw another chuckle from my students with that. It never fails to please me. "Can anyone share a personal experience with the class? A time where an unspoken spell was necessary in some way?"

Calicia's hand goes up again. "Yes, sir. I was once swimming and suddenly remembered that my towel needed to dry. I got out of the water but my teeth were chattering too hard to say anything because I was cold, so I _silently_ dried my towel with a spell."

Everyone laughs. I'm sure that out of everyone in the class, only half are laughing at her. The other half is watching me and laughing, as _I _try not to laugh at her. I nod, my mouth twitching. "Thank you, Miss Martin. Does anyone else want to share an experience? No one? Yes, Lalloway, how about you."

James's best friend Luke glances furtively around, making sure he has everyone's attention, and then speaks in his loud drawl of a voice. "Over the summer, I was up doing my homework in my room when I heard the floor creak downstairs, but I knew nobody was home, so I went down there to see what was going on and I saw a Muggle burglar in the parlour. I didn't want to let him know I was there, so I managed to send a silent Stunning spell at him. The Ministry was there in about fifteen minutes, and they took him away and I heard they left him at some Muggle please-man station or something. I got let off with a warning because I was defending my home, but they were still pretty angry that I'd done magic 'in the presence of a Muggle'." He puts on an affected little snob voice for the last bit of the sentence, and stares around at his peers, very self-satisfied. Everyone's looking at him in awe that he broke the law and got away with it, and did all that. They're obviously impressed. I decide that his ego needs to be taken down a few notches.

"Now if only you'd included some of that practicality in your essay, Mr. Lalloway, you might have scraped a better mark." The boy's smug grin defiantly stays put, but the class's attention has shifted back to me, as I intended. "Right. Stand up, everyone, if you please, and find partners." They do so, and James and Luke gravitate to each other like Muggle magnets. I flick my wand and all the desks and chairs slide to the sides of the room, making quite a horrible noise scraping against the floor. Everyone winces, including me. "Sorry." More chuckles. "So pair off, facing your partner, and determine which person will be A, and which will be B." I give them a moment to decide. "Person A will be defending—using a _silent_ Shield Charm—and Person B will be attempting to Disarm—_silently_. I know it's the same lesson as last week, but nobody managed to _do_ anything last week, so we're having another go at it today. Begin."

I prowl slowly around the classroom as my students do as bidden, watching and correcting and giving advice where it's needed. I don't expect total silence during lessons like this, as Snape expected of the class when I was sixteen. A quiet murmur level of noise is perfectly acceptable, so long as people aren't muttering the spells under their breath (a bad habit which I believe I quelled last lesson, when I made an example of that damnfool girl, Gertrude Finnigan (how Seamus raised such an emptyhead, I'll never know) by mock-dueling her in front of everyone; she tried to mutter _Expelliarmus_, and I blocked it easy as pie, and she tried to mutter something else, and kept on being blocked at every turn until I took pity on her and ended the duel by silently Disarming her (by which time she was red as a beet) and then explained to the class why silent spells are essential while dueling). So I don't think I'll have any of that trouble today. Or at least, I'd better not.

"I find it helps if you _visualize_ what you want the spell to do, as well as thinking the words. Try it again."

Time passes quickly. Before I know it the class is over, and only two people have managed to do anything—James is one of them, to my surprise and pleasure. Mind, he always has been good at the practical portions of most spellwork; it's the theory and writing that get him. Nobody's perfect. James lingers for a minute once everyone has filed out. I look at him as I finish putting the desks back where they belong. "Yes?"

"Hey, dad. Just...saying hi. Haven't talked in a while, so..." he trails off, looking awkwardly hesitant, as though he's restraining himself from saying what he wants to. I smile encouragingly. His eyebrows twitch slightly into a concerned frown. "Are you okay? Really? I mean, you look fine, but...it's been a year now, and..."

I sigh and don't break eye contact. At fifteen, James is already much more mature than I was at that age, though he likes to pretend that he's not, and (probably through overexposure to Hermione) he really does seem to grasp an understanding of human nature that I don't even have now. Thinking about Ginny is, yes, still painful. I don't know how he picks up on it, I'm a very good actor. Shouldn't be surprised at this point. Aside from Hermione and Ron, James was my biggest support that helped me get through the divorce. Sometimes it's still hard to believe that she just...left.

I don't bother putting on a brave face, smiling, and reassuring my eldest son that everything is fine. It's not fine, and he knows it. All four of us are still hurting from her abandonment. Raising three teenagers on one's own is hard on a man. At least I have the benefit of being within walking distance of them year-round, as their Defense professor. I'm not so sure that Lily in particular would be faring so well if I weren't here. Her first year at Hogwarts was brutally hard on her. She had to deal with her introduction to proper use of magic on top of the separation...after her first week she even sent me a letter saying she wanted to come home. But I think my being here has really helped. I only wish there was more I could do.

James reads my face like a book and drops his bag on the floor, walking over to me and encasing me in a hard hug. It's a rare thing for a father to get such a sincere gesture from his son. I squeeze him once and let go, and he picks up his bag, hoisting the strap over his head, and nods, turning to go.

"I'm always here if you need anything."

He glances back over his shoulder at the door and smiles. "And I'm just a Detention away. See you, Dad."

I lift my hand in dismissal and he leaves. With a sigh and a shake of my head, I trudge back into my office to check which class I have next, and glimpse the barely-started letter on my desk. I can't afford to put it off or I'll forget to write back to her, and how terrible would that be? Very. It would be very terrible. So I sit down, quill in hand, and quickly dash off a short letter detailing my apology for not writing before, how excited I am that she's coming to visit this weekend, and how much I'm looking forward to seeing her. I sign it just _Harry_—nice and simple, not implying anything—and tie it to Romulus's leg. The old owl had to sit in my office for the whole duration of my class, poor beast. With an irritated hoot and a peck on my hand meaning 'What took you so long?', he zooms out the window and flies off into the distance. The bell rings again, signaling the start of this period. I glance down at my chart. Terrific. Fourth-years—Slytherin and Gryffindor. Albus and his friend Scorpius are in this class. I don't know if it's specifically because of those two, but this class is without a doubt the rowdiest bunch of hooligans I've ever seen. Surely no class was as bad as them when I was at Hogwarts. Ah, well. Time to face the music, as they say. More like face the ghouls.

--

_**Friday**_

I want to finish all the marking I have to do this weekend as quickly as I can tonight and get it all done. It's only the other fifth-year class's essays, and I've done half of them already. Oh, and my first-year tests. But those are easy. I get to work, using my second-best quill for the smoothest writing—it just makes things go faster—and my red ink. For some reason I love using that colour to mark papers with; seems so appropriate. And it reminds me of the first school I attended, over thirty years ago now, the Muggle school; all the teachers used red ink there, too.

My excitement builds as I near finishing the essays. Should I tell the kids she's coming...? No, I don't think so; it will be better as a surprise. I'll make sure we're in the Three Broomsticks for much of the afternoon; almost all the students stop in there for at least a few minutes every Hogsmeade trip, from what I can remember.

Time passes like the flowing of the river behind my house back at Godric's Hollow—fast-moving but with a deceptively calm surface, so that I barely notice the hour by the time I finally put down my quill, my hand aching with exhaustion and my tired mind begging for sleep. It's two in the bloody morning. How the hell did that happen? Ah, but poetical...ness...returns to me as I sink into the sweet bliss of knowledge that Hermione will be here tomorrow. On the morrow. Isn't that a nice turn of phrase? On the morrow...on the meadow...on the sorrow...on the...cello...

OUCH.

I rub my head, having thunked it down on the desk. It appears I briefly fell asleep. Off to bed for me.

--

_**Saturday**_

It is a clear, crisp morning. I separate myself from the pack of students flowing out of Hogwarts' front doors, ignoring them as surely as they are ignorant of me. There is a peculiar feeling in my chest that begs to be described as my being 'all a-flutter'. But that is definitely a decidedly effeminate turn of phrase. So, nevermind. Ahem. Thinking manly thoughts. Grrr, Quidditch.

Lost in my oh-so-eloquent internal manly monologue, I don't even blink as I near Hogsmeade. Suddenly I hear a piercing squeal that reminds me vividly of the pixie incident back in second year, but as far as I know, Lockhart is still off traveling Europe 'rediscovering himself', so it can't be him. I'm briefly amused by the fact that my wandering train of thought has taken me on such a random ride today, but now—do my eyes detect bouncing, curly brown hair, shining in the morning sunlight? I think they do. A _hugely_ wide smile splits my face. As in, cheek-hurting-wide.

"_Harry!_"

Keeping my cool, I suavely flick an errant lock of hair out of my face and wave. "Fair maiden, you grow lovelier each time you grace me with your presence. Nice to see you. How's Ron?"

Her smile does that thing where my chest isn't big enough to contain my heart. "He's fine. He was sad that he couldn't make it this weekend."

"Yeah, that's too bad. Would've liked to say hello." I guess I haven't gone this long without seeing Ron since I first met him, either, but it's more noticeable with Hermione. I'll give you three guesses as to why. Two don't count. "Well, when was the last time you were in Hogsmeade?"

"Oh, _years_ ago...I can't even remember. It's so good to be back, I don't know where to start."

I resist the urge to sling an arm around her shoulders as she falls into step beside me. One would think that by now, the little urges like that would have stopped; that I would have gotten used to never touching her. But when it's your best friend...it never gets easier. I sigh inwardly. And I sigh again, this time from happiness. _Hermione's_ here. I feel giddy and childish.

We spend the morning browsing all the different shops that we never explored when we frequented Hogsmeade, during our years at Hogwarts. The people here do seem to like their hogs. Hog's Head Tavern, Hogsmeade, Hogwarts...I've never really thought about it before. And _Hogwarts_. Hog...warts. I wonder how the four founders came to _that_ decision. We roam the streets, perfectly at ease with each other, everything good and cheerful. I fill her in on details about Rose and Hugo, and then about James, Albus and Lily. She fills me in about what's going on with her possible new job and gives me news of Seamus and his wife, Dorothy, who Hermione tells me came over for dinner at the Burrow last week. We chatter on about this, that and the next thing as time wears on.

I buy her a tiny candied pumpkin at Honeydukes, on sale in honour of Hallowe'en next Thursday. She munches on it as we walk. It's past noon now; I decide that it's time to sit down for a while in the Three Broomsticks and have a drink. We enter the crowded tavern and Hermione finds a small table while I order her a mulled mead and a Butterbeer for myself. I've always had a weak spot for them. First real wizarding drink, you know, other than pumpkin juice.

As we talk, the pauses between discussions get longer, though not uncomfortably so. We sit and drink, enjoying each other's company. I revel in her. For a moment, looking at her, seeing her back in this old, familiar environment, it feels like the past twenty-five years haven't happened and we're teenagers again. Age hasn't diminished her. All the years have done is made her more attractive. My thoughts wander as I reminisce about the golden years, the prime of life; our late twenties...when I fell in love with her.

I remember that night in her kitchen very clearly, even now. Her refusal to admit that anything was wrong, her increasing fear when I pressed her, the trembling that followed when she knew it was inevitable that I would know...the ache in my chest when I found out how long she had hidden it...the kiss that ended too briefly when she pushed me away, both of us knowing we couldn't let it happen...and the decision, made jointly but not out loud, never to touch each other again.

It was awkward, at first, and very difficult. We were young and in love with each other, but absolutely could not be together. For some people that might have made an affair irresistible; the forbidden fruit being the sweetest, etc. But that alluring notion, however tempting to me at least, never even entered into the realm of possibility in our minds. Ridiculously noble, some might have called us. So noble we should practically be in the royal family of England, in my opinion. Damn noble of us. But it was hard. At first Hermione would blush at everything I'd say to her, taking in the subtle, underlying meaning that I myself was only barely conscious of. I would instinctively go to sit beside her, and then catch myself and go sit somewhere else. We'd decided that it was best if we simply didn't present ourselves with the opportunity to be close, physically, to each other. The power of human touch, simple enough but profound in a very base and primal way, became clear to me over the first year or so, and the knowledge has stayed with me since.

I missed her when she was standing right in front of me. Her comforting hand on my shoulder...her hugs when she knew I needed it (and she always knew)...even our knees brushing lightly against one another under the table—small sacrifices build up, and up, and up.

I love her. I always...yes, I always have, in a way. At first it was the childish love of a close friend, and then the brotherly affection one feels for someone they've known for several years...and then came the love of your best friend, the person you're closest to in the whole world. I suppose I should have known at that point that I was doomed to fall for her in the end. And I did. Gradually. I never woke up one morning when I was twenty-five or so and thought to myself, 'Oh, damn. I'm in love with my sister-in-law.'

It snuck up on me like a dandelion weed in a manicured lawn. At first it's just the one flower, and it's so cheerfully pretty that you don't have the heart to uproot it. Then it's three or flour blooms, and you think to yourself, 'It's getting to be more than should be there, on my perfectly well-kept lawn, but the bright yellow is so nice...I'll deal with it later.' And before you know what's hit you, you're falling more and more in love with your best friend (who is married to your other best friend, whose sister YOU'RE married to), and your stupid lawn is covered in weeds. And you look at the ruined grass and think, 'What the hell is my wife gonna say when she sees all these damned dandelions?' And...you're screwed all around.

Looking back now...it's been twelve years of wasted time. I wish occasionally that we'd never had that conversation at the Burrow that night. Then at least we could have gone on with our lives the way they'd been, with contact. I mean...I suppose if our feelings had gone unchecked, we might have let them run away with us and got into a situation where one of us ended up in the other's bed. If we hadn't talked about it beforehand. And that would be bad. Mind you...if that _had_ happened, we might have been able to get rid of the sexual tension, and then go happily back to our respective spouses and had done with it all—maybe saved ourselves years of pain. The way we went about it—the honourable way—we've developed a more solid relationship, one that transcends the physical desire for each other. Now I know it would be impossible to forget it all afterwards if we had one night together. It is more than that, now. We are matched: intellectually, emotionally; we do desire each other (at least, god knows, I desire her), but now it is much more than that as well. We've strengthened the bonds of deep friendship that were there from the beginning, and which are the foundation of any worthwhile romantic relationship, and by little things we've said or looks we've given, we both know that we are both still in love with the other. We have been having a secret, entirely emotional and not at all physical affair for the last twelve years of our _lives_. That's a long time.

And to be honest...this way, I think, it's worse.

This is a much deeper, much more meaningful transgression. I still feel sorry for Ron. Ginny I seem to have lost sympathy for, for some reason, but when I remember that it must have been me that drove her away, though unintentionally, the sorrow returns.

But...again...was it really so unintentional? Surely I would have been happier if she'd stayed—but would I have? Do I know that? I can't truthfully answer yet; I just don't know. Did I subconsciously neglect her in hopes that she would leave, and thereby make it easier for me to love Hermione? So many terrible questions I don't like asking myself, for fear that in my answers I'll find myself no longer the 'better person'. I wonder if Ginny is going through such intense guilt as well, over in France. If she thinks about her three children and wishes she hadn't left them behind.

I wonder if she'll ever come back.

Hermione takes a sip of her mead and smiles to herself, lost in thought, her gaze drifting lazily over something behind and beside me. I can't help noticing the curve of her lips and wish—for the umpteenth time today—that I could kiss her, just once. She is so beautiful. And I don't mean she's plain but I love her so she appears beautiful—I mean she is drawing eyes left, right and center, and mine are no exception. I can't stop just looking at her. She is...lovely in every way possible. Her mind, her sense of humour, her spirit; she is the world to me.

She will never be anything but.

I must content myself with the knowledge that she knows I love her and would do anything for her. And I know she loves me. There is that nagging voice at the back of my brain that asks, 'How can you ever _really_ know...?' But I know. Otherwise, why would she have come to Hogsmeade this weekend?

"Hi, Professor!"

I am brought out of my musings by the voice of Luke Lalloway, and I turn to grin at him. "What do you want, Lalloway? Can't you see I'm busy?"

"_Aunt Hermione!_"

James nearly knocks her out of her chair with the enthusiasm of his hug, making us all laugh. "James! Please don't tell me you grew _again;_ I won't stand for it. You already passed me last year, and that's about all I can take."

"What are you doing here?" he asks happily, motioning for Luke to go on and find another table. "I'll just be a minute."

"Oh, it's just been so long since I've seen your dad—you know how whiny he gets without me around—that I thought I'd check up on you all."

"Are you staying at the castle?"

"No, no; there's a little inn down the road that I've got a room at for tonight. It _is_ good to see you," she says fondly, giving him another hug. James grins.

"You too. Are you going to come see Lily and Hugo after, though?"

"Tomorrow, in the morning. I figure we'll use your dad's office," she suggests, glancing at me for approval, which I give with a nod. She turns back to James. "Will you drop by?"

"Sure. Wouldn't miss a big ole family reunion," he drawls, earning himself a roll of her eyes.

"Maybe we'll play Gobstones. See you later, kiddo."

James walks away with a wave, laughing, and heads over to a table in the corner where a bunch of his friends are waiting for him. Quite the socialite, is my son. Hermione looks at me over her glass. "You promised me he'd stopped growing," she says, eyes dancing. We both laugh and fall back into easy conversation.

We while away the hours of the afternoon with students and other customers flowing around us, occasionally someone stopping to talk to me. The more forward older students ask to be introduced to Hermione, and are very impressed when they learn that she's in fact '_the_ Hermione Granger, who helped Harry Potter defeat Voldemort'. She'll be a hero to them too now, and I know they won't stop asking about her every time they have my class from now on. "_How's Hermione?_" they'll say. "_Will you bring her in for a lesson one time?_" Like she's a specimen to be examined. Do they think she'll give a speech? The thought amuses me.

"Good lord, we've been here five hours," she says, looking at her watch. "Feels like one." Nodding in agreement, I stand up and push in my chair. She does the same, and we leave the Three Broomsticks. The sun is just going down.

We amble up to the little hotel on the main street running through town and push through the doors, stamping our feet to get rid of the mud and guck on our boots. She smiles at the tiny woman behind the check-in counter as we pass by. Her room is on the second floor. We linger outside her door for a while, soaking up the last bit of time together before saying goodnight. "Well...thank you, again, for walking me all the way back here," she says a little embarrassedly. "It's an awfully long way back from the gates to the school."

"Eh, it's a nice evening. Besides, I need the exercise. No Quidditch for a year has made me fat and lazy."

We both laugh easily and then are quiet for a moment. She looks thoughtful. "Harry...I've been thinking." There you have it. "I'm...not as excited as I thought I'd be about my new job. Working at the Ministry isn't exactly the best pay in the world, at least not for what I'll be doing, and paper shuffling was never quite what I had in mind when I decided I wanted to go into Healing." She pauses, but I don't interrupt. She looks grateful for it and gathers her thoughts. "What I mean is...I'm not sure I really want to take it. I'd be just as bored there as I am at home every day. And...I don't know...it doesn't seem worth it. You know?"

I nod. "You should feel fulfilled by your job, not bored by it."

"Exactly," she says, still slightly hesitant. Another pause where she tries to put into the right words what she wants to say. "I...I've been considering...applying at Hogwarts." I blink, and all the breath rushes out of me at once. "You know, as the nurse. Or as a second nurse. I could work in the library, too—like part-time in both. When there are students in the Hospital Wing I'd tend to them, unless they required more senior attention, and the rest of the time I could help out in the library, you know, shelving books and supervising...I could even set up study groups for students who need help with their schoolwork, and—what do you think?" She looks apprehensively at me, having spoken all in a rush, and waits for me to say something. Myself, I can't believe she's been reading my mind. I could ask for nothing more than to have Hermione at Hogwarts with me. Honestly—it's a FANTASTIC idea. She would be doing what she loves, and in close proximity to me again...just thinking about it fills me with elation.

"It's brilliant!" I exclaim, the grin bursting onto my face. She exhales with relief and beams at me.

"You think so?"

"Do I—of course! How can you even ask that? You know how much that would mean to me, having you around all the time again!"

Her smile lights up the narrow hallway. We stand there, beaming at each other, wrapped up in our mutual excitement like we're kids again, and I feel myself wavering on the edge of scooping her up and twirling her around in my arms. But I haven't come close to doing anything like that in the past twelve years. Which is a long time. Even to a forty-year-old. The welled-up excitement doesn't fade—she's coming to Hogwarts, to be closer to _me_—but the old sadness starts creeping back also. She feels it, too. I can see it (cheesily) in her eyes. She swallows. "I've put a lot of thought into it, and—I thought maybe Ron could move to Hogsmeade, you know? Him and I move here? I'd stay at the castle, of course, but then he wouldn't be all alone all year long at the Burrow, and maybe George and Angelina could move in there—they _do_ have limited space over the shop, so the Burrow would be perfect for them, much better than one man living all alone. Do you think Ron would mind?" she asks, and I marvel at the level of detail she's gone through in her considerations. It sounds bloody perfect to me, and I tell her so.

I glance down at my watch—Fabian Prewett's old, battered watch that still works like a charm (ha, ha)—and blink at the time. Hermione smiles sadly, seeing me do it, and looks a little disappointed but nods.

"Well...it was _so_ good seeing you. I'll be over at the castle in the morning to see Lily and Hugo, and say goodbye...and then I suppose I'll see you at the Burrow for Christmas."

I nod and smile back. "Yeah. I'm so glad you came, Hermione. Really. Thank you." I pour warmth into the words, and the tiniest of blushes colours her cheeks. There is a somewhat awkward pause as we both think longingly about a time when a long hug would take place about now. Well. No point in going down that road. I open my mouth to say goodnight and start to take a step sideways down the hall toward the stairs.

A man just coming up hurries past us and jostles me, muttering an apology as he fumbles with his room key, opens a door down the hall and disappears through it. I barely notice. Without thinking I had put my hand out to catch myself, off-balance from being bumped in mid-step, and my hand landed on Hermione's bare shoulder.

The power of human touch, indeed.

I'm hardly breathing. I haven't moved. Neither has she. Oh, god...her skin..._glorious_...I have never had this reaction to a woman before. Twelve years. That's like...a whole child ago, since the last time I touched her. _God_. This is...

...very, VERY bad.

All the work I've done to protect myself from this sort of thing ever happening is unraveling before my eyes as my heart starts pounding. Her skin...my fingers move of their own accord (I swear), brushing over her collarbone and up against the side of her neck. This feels like adultery. Just a simple touch. Her gaze, intense as the sun, eats at me; I can almost feel it. I can't look her back in the eyes. That would be the end of what little self-control I still possess. And I _will not let this happen_.

Like I've received an electric shock I jerk my hand back to my chest, rubbing it absently against my jacket to stop the tingling feeling in my fingers. _God. Merlin_. She...shouldn't be allowed to do that. Once my breathing is under control, I slowly look up to meet her eyes.

A mistake, as it turns out.

The chocolate brown is shot through with gold, burning hot, her gaze telling me all sorts of things no woman should be thinking about a man who is not her husband. Not helping the matter is that I'm thinking them too. At least she's not my sister-in-law anymore...not that it makes a difference...but it's a small consolation. I'm torn between that stupid old thing that everyone quotes Dumbledore on—what is right, and what is easy.

But...kissing her would feel so _right_.

"H-Harry..."

Her jaw is trembling. Come _on_. If that isn't a cry of 'TAKE ME NOW' then I don't know what is. I make an effort to swallow the growing lump in my throat and stifle the rising urge to—er—do things—and close my eyes. "I'm sorry." I have to whisper; my voice is hoarse. I look at her. She's beautiful, like always. I'm suddenly terrified—what if Ron finds out? But...the ridiculousness occurs to me. So I caught myself on her shoulder. Oops. What an abomination.

Well, it is to me.

"Harry..." she says again.

_I love you._

"I have to go," I blurt, and straighten. "Goodnight."

Before she can say anything else, I've fled.

Once I'm out in the cool October evening I stop to catch my breath and stop shaking. _God and Merlin_. What have I done? What the hell am I going to do? She'll be at Hogwarts next year—and—what if this is a slippery slope? The next time will be a hundred times harder to resist...and if it happens again, a thousand times harder to resist after that. What if next I 'accidentally' brush her hand...or touch her hair...or...anything...

I am in deep shit.


	5. Aged 40: Hermione

**A/N: It is the winter break, later the same year; Harry has finished his first term at Hogwarts, and is one of the professors who are taking the two holiday weeks off; he and the five Potter and Weasley children are staying at the Burrow for one week, including Christmas, and then all eight (including adults) will spend the second week at Godric's Hollow, in an effort to help keep the Potters feeling like they have a home. It is Christmas Eve. Hermione's POV.**

**If you are craving outside perspectives on Harry and Hermione's relationship, please read my accompaniment short stories: 'Homesick', 'Dishes', and 'Fire'. There will be more where they came from; I'm building a little world surrounding this main storyline, giving it more depth.**

--

I bought mistletoe today.

I can't believe it. I was in town buying more food to feed the lot of hooligans that arrived a few days ago, and I saw a little bunch of it hanging in the back of the shop and I thought it might be nice. To be perfectly honest, I don't know _what_ came over me. Mistletoe? In my own home full of teenagers who are all related to each other? The only people that can use it are Ron and I—and all it will do is make it hard for Harry and me to...live. Urgh. Maybe I won't hang it up. Maybe I'll just leave it in a bag in my room under the bed and forget about it. But if Ron finds it, he'll be so excited about it and put it up in a second—and scold me for hiding it in the first place. 'Why would you buy it if you don't want to _enjoy_ it?' he'd say. I sigh. I might as well just put it up. No point in avoiding it.

I scoop the mistletoe out of the grocery bag and walk over to the archway between the kitchen and the living room with a resigned look on my face. "_Wingardium leviosa_," I mutter with the old swish-and-flick, and it zooms to the top beam of the arch, where I 'stick' it with a nifty little charm I use for floating candles above the dinner table. You just have to magically anchor the floating object to a surface (the top beam, in this case), determine the length away from which the object will float, and cast the spell. Lovely. The mistletoe is officially in place. Huzzah.

With a blast of happy noise, the door opens and the five children pile into the kitchen, all of them gabbing and laughing as they come inside after what I'm sure was a rousing snowball war. It never ceases to amaze me that two twelve-year-olds, two fourteen-year-olds and a fifteen-year-old can get along so well. I've never seen them _really_ fight. The odd annoyance occurs; obviously that happens with siblings and cousins...but nothing more. I suppose growing up in Harry and Ginny's household might have taught the Potter kids to learn to get along with people even if they don't want to...but wouldn't it more likely have taught them to fight more with each other? Learning by example? If it was any other family, I'd say that would be the case, but James, Albus and Lily are just so...agreeable. Naturally they're opinionated people—it's in their blood—but they radiate positivity and all three are just a delight to be around. It's wonderful. Harry has got to be the best father in the world to have raised them to be this way, even though the example they've seen was him fighting with their mother all the time. I don't know how they did it. I hope Rosie and Hugo have as good social skills around everyone else; I'm a little biased (a mother's prerogative) and would praise them if they behaved like pigs. Well—I say I would, anyway. It's the thought that counts.

"Aunt Hermione, when's dinner?" Lily asks cheekily, batting her big eyes at me. The others clamour around me as well, asking the same thing. I laugh, unable to help myself, and shove them playfully out of my way.

"Dinner's when I'm good and ready, you greedy little grasshoppers, now get out of the kitchen—unless you want to help me cook."

In a flash, the room is empty. Hooligans.

I laugh to myself again and turn to open cupboards and drawers to get out pots and pans. It's Christmas Eve; no huge Christmas dinner like there will be tomorrow when the whole rest of the great bloody family gets here, but I've definitely got to warm them up for what's coming. It'll be pasta tonight—penne noodles with sun-dried tomatoes and bacon and spinach bits and sautéed onions and diced green peppers and various herbs for added flavour...delicious. My mouth waters at the thought. I get to work.

"Need some help, dear?" comes Ron's voice from the archway. I nod absently.

"Yes, thank you. Just start chopping the onions, would you?" I instruct, and he sits down at the kitchen table, doing what I asked. I turn back to the stove and go about setting charms on the knives to chop the bacon, lighting my trademark bluebell flames under the pots to boil the water, magically measuring out the pasta and putting it aside until the water's ready, et cetera. More noise from behind me—I glance over my shoulder at the doorway and see Harry—my heart gives a little flutter—herding James, Rosie and Albus into the kitchen.

"Help your aunt! Help your mother!" he orders, and when all three simultaneously turn around and give him their best doe-eyed pleading faces, he growls, "That won't work on me anymore—I get too much of it at school." The three teenagers laugh and groan, reluctantly turning around to look imploringly at me instead. Harry winks at me over their heads (I fight down a blush) and disappears back into the living room, I assume to keep an eye on Lily and Hugo. I immediately put James to work watching the water with instructions to inform me when it starts boiling and set Rosie and Albus up chopping spinach and peppers. The latter two resume their conversation about Muggle television, and when I turn back to the stove, I see James looking at me oddly. I cock my head at him. With a little shake to snap himself out of whatever he was thinking he looks away. I shrug to myself and continue bustling about the kitchen. We can't just have pasta, there have to be vegetables and maybe some meat; I think I have some chicken cutlets in the freezer...and I'll need to separate some of the pasta for Rose, as she's decided to become a vegetarian. I'll just have to remember to set some aside for her, without the bacon pieces. What else is there to do...?

Time passes quickly when you're in the middle of a flurry of activity in a small kitchen. Before I know it the meal is made, and I look around with a satisfied smile. Taking my wand out of my apron pocket, I point it at the little bell hanging from the lintel of the door frame, sending a little puff of air towards it to make it ring. There is an excited bubble of noise from the other room and the rest of my family pours in. Everyone takes their seats around the table, myself included, and the food starts serving itself around. Happy conversation surrounds me. The food is good and well received. Everyone makes a point to compliment me on it, and I politely thank them all before deflecting the praise on to the kids, who, to be fair, did help. All the attention is making me blush—it's just a dinner. Surely we didn't praise Molly this much when she cooked for us at Christmas. Perhaps I should have...oh, well.

Once the meal is underway, I glance around the table for the salt shaker and ask if someone would please pass it to me. Someone does. I happen to look up and meet Harry's eyes as I take the salt shaker from him, and as his warm fingers close over mine, I stop breathing.

So. It's beginning.

This is the way I am going to live the rest of my life. First, an accidental balancing situation. Then, passing a salt shaker. What next? A brush on the shoulder as we say goodbye? A hug hello? Once we start coming into physical contact with each other again, it will be over for me. I won't be able to...Merlin, I've dropped the bloody thing. The salt shaker crashes loudly onto the edge of the plate of pasta in the middle of the table, making everyone jump. I can feel Harry's eyes on me as heat rises into my cheeks and collar, my fingers trembling slightly. My hand is still extended out over the table, I don't know why. Someone laughs, and the conversation swells up around me again as Ron fixes it with a swish of his wand, and hands me the salt. I shake it over my food, not remembering why I wanted it in the first place but unable to stop. James, sitting next to me, gently reaches for it, asking, "Are you done with that, Aunt 'Mione?" I nod and hand it to him.

Merlin.

I am a mess.

I can't go on like this. This is ridiculous. My hands are still shaking. He touched me. Purposefully. He hasn't done that in _twelve years,_ and for good reason, because this is the kind of thing that happens. Good god, he touched my hand in front of everyone. In front of our family. But it's not 'our family', together; it's 'our' 'family'. Separately. He is a part of it and I am a part of it, but we are in-laws. Actually, since the divorce papers went through, we technically aren't anymore...but that is irrelevant. We're still—damn it all, I'm _married_, and not to him. I have to pull myself together.

The rest of the meal passes without incident, though I can feel his eyes on me for much of the time. It is so difficult to keep from looking back at him. I've missed him so much over the past few months; with him away at Hogwarts and me stuck here all the time, I haven't seen him since that weekend before Hallowe'en, and it had already been two months before then. I think I'm going to owl McGonagall about my idea. I need to be around him more—this distance is killing me.

Once everyone has finished eating, I announce that I'm starting to clean up, and within seconds the room has cleared out. Rapscallions, I tell you, the whole lot of them. Harry and Ron included. With a rueful smile and a shake of my head, I start clearing the table.

"Aunt Hermione, can I talk to you?"

I glance up from the table, the last two glasses in my hands. James is standing in the doorway. I nod and smile at my favourite nephew. I shouldn't pick favourites, I know, but god knows I can't help what I feel. Oh, well. "Of course. I'm just about to start the dishes, if you want to help."

He hesitates for a moment and then shakes his head. "Could you...just do them the normal way, this time? I really need to talk to you."

I stop and straighten, leveling a gaze at him. It's only now that I catch the serious look in his eyes. I wonder what's wrong. With another nod, I put the glasses into the sink and charm the dishes to start washing themselves. It's been quite a long time since I did this the 'normal' way as opposed to the Muggle way...it's kind of nice knowing that I don't have to do much of any work to get them done. Magic has its uses.

James glances over his shoulder at the rest of the family in the living room, and then looks meaningfully at the kitchen door. I take the hint. I take my coat off the hook it's hanging on, as James does the same, and we walk out into the cold, crisp evening. The first thing I see is evidence of a snowball fight. There are three forts in the yard, roughly the same distance apart from each other; the closest one to the house is just a thick wall of snow, and the far left one has little battlements on top. James and I walk past the third fort, and I see him grin in spite of himself. This must be his. It's got a little hole underneath the main wall, leading down into what can only be an escape tunnel through to the ten-foot high drift a few feet away. I wonder if the others knew about it. James looks at me out of the corner of his eye, hearing my little laugh of appreciation, and he grins more widely. I smile. "I'm sure your father would approve of your...ingenuity."

In an instant, the grin disappears. I falter a little. So it's about Harry, the reason James needs to talk to me. Though I do probably know him the best, I'm not sure this is the most appropriate time to be discussing Harry, especially with his son. I can't help remembering the incident with the salt, and I shiver involuntarily. It is not because of the cold. He touched me. And he knew what he was doing. It was no accident, it couldn't be blamed on somebody else, and he was _looking_ at me when it happened. In front of everybody. Does he _want_ me to break down again? This is almost twenty years in the making—no, it's more than that now. Merlin, how long _has_ it been? Twenty-one? I was seventeen...well, almost eighteen, really, and now I'm forty...good god, I'm old. It's been twenty-two years since the end of the war. Twenty-two years that I've been in a relationship with Ron, and twenty-two years that I've been hopelessly in love with another man. Oh, hell. I promised myself I wouldn't think about this tonight.

It's been silent for a while. My nephew and I are wandering slowly and aimlessly away from the house; it gets darker the further we get, as the lights from inside grow dimmer with distance. Soon the only light will be from the moon and stars. It's a nice night, made brighter by the reflection of light off the snow that covers the ground as far as the eye can see. As far as my eyes can see, anyway. I don't know if other people have better vision than me or not. And now my mind is wandering off on tangents. Lovely.

"Aunt Hermione...could you tell me...about the war?"

I blink. Surely his father is more appropriate to ask.

"I know, you're probably thinking 'Why don't you ask your dad', right? He...doesn't like talking about it. I was wondering if you would. Because, you know, you were there, the whole time, with him. I was just wondering what it was like."

We don't stop walking, but I slow down a bit, and he matches my pace. I turn my face up to the night sky. Dredge up those old memories...? I suppose I could see what I can do...I wish I had a Pensieve, so he could see clearly for himself what it was like back then, but then again, that might scar him...I feel a stab of pain as I remember Fred's death...seeing Lupin and Tonks lying in the Great Hall with the other countless bodies...tiny little Colin Creevey...he had no chance to defend himself, he was never much good at wandwork...goodness, I didn't think it would be so easy to recall such clear details, but here I am, feeling as though I'm reliving it all...

I shake my head as I begin. "It was...bad, James. Especially during that last year. When your father, your uncle and I were off looking for...ways to destroy Voldemort." James is looking at me intently as I speak. I'm not really thinking about the words; they're just coming. "I remember that we spent months living in a tent, barely scraping together enough food so as not to starve. It was difficult, especially for Ron. He was used to being at the Burrow or at Hogwarts, never going hungry, always having things to do...we would spend hours just sitting in the tent around the table, passing time by trying to figure out our next step. We never stayed in one place more than a night or two. We had to keep moving. All around Britain, and Scotland, with no company but each other and nothing to do and almost nothing to eat. One of us always had to keep watch at night. We took turns. I can't remember ever getting one full night's sleep during that year..."

I trail off, but James doesn't interrupt. It would break the spell of what I'm saying.

After kicking lightly at a branch that's in my way, I continue. "Ron...got separated from us, at one point." A glance sideways at James tells me that he hasn't heard this part before. I'm not sure it's my place to tell him, but I won't disclose the reason Ron left, so it's not so bad. "He got too far from the camp when he was fishing and couldn't find his way back," I say. The lie rises to my lips almost effortlessly. Perhaps I should stop lying so much...it surprises me that it comes so easily to me now. "We stayed there as long as we could, but...eventually we had to leave. He was fine—when he realized he didn't know how to get back to us, he Apparated to your Uncle Bill's place, up at Shell Cottage, and stayed there for a while," I reassure James. "Har—your dad and I didn't know that at the time, of course; we had no contact with anyone at all. How could we have known? It was...awful. We felt abandoned. And frightened, and sad." I swallow with difficulty at the memory of Ron's desertion. Tears threaten to fill my eyes as they start to sting, and I fight to push them away. Anger is a strong part of that memory, and guilt, and such sadness that I thought, then, my heart would break. I surprise myself again at how clearly the emotions rise to the surface of my consciousness, and I find myself struggling to contain them.

Now James pauses, and I stop and turn to look at him. His eyes are narrowed slightly, but not in accusation; just realization. "He left. You knew."

"Pardon?"

James looks silently at me for a few seconds. "Uncle Ron didn't get lost, did he?"

How does he do that?

We stare at each other without speaking for a long time. Nothing needs to be said. I can't deny it, and he knows I won't try to. Finally I can't do it anymore and I break away from his gaze, continuing to walk. After a moment he follows me. He doesn't press the subject.

"It was during the time when it was just your father and I that we decided to go to Godric's Hollow for the first time. Has he ever told you about this?" James shakes his head wordlessly, his eyes still glued to my face. I sigh. "Neither of us had ever been there before. I had convinced myself that there might be clues there, and your dad just wanted to see his parents' graves. He'd wanted to go there for ages but I thought it was too dangerous, you see...but...I managed to convince myself that it would be a good idea, so, we went. It was...Christmas Eve." I pause here as I remember that fact. Twenty-two years exactly, to the day, since that night. I turn my face up and close my eyes, remembering.

We'd taken Polyjuice Potion and gone into the little village arm in arm, and he'd talked me into taking off the Cloak so we could walk freely. It was snowing lightly, and carol singing was coming from the little church beside the graveyard. The houses were all lit up with strings of coloured lights. That's how we knew it was Christmas Eve. We had had no sense of time or its passing; we only knew that it was winter.

James stumbles a bit over a rock hidden by snow, and it brings me back the present. "We took some Polyjuice Potion for disguise, and we went to visit his parents' graves. It took a while to find them; it's a very old graveyard, and you know how big it is." He nods. "It was very...moving. To see them. I've always been glad that I was there with your father for it." I smile softly to myself. Tonight looks like that night, only it's not snowing. James is giving me the same look he gave me in the kitchen earlier—an odd expression on his face like he's torn from indecision. I frown slightly. "Is something the matter?"

"No...no, sorry. Please keep going."

I sigh. "Alright. Well...after we saw the graves, we started heading back towards the village." I remember that Harry cried. We had our arms around each other as we walked. I smile a little again. "We saw the statue of your dad and your grandparents. And...we saw the house. It looked just like it still does now—and the sign was there, too. I suppose it's been there since just after it happened." I assume James knows I mean the end of the first war, and by his silence I know he does. "Anyway...while we were looking at the house...an old woman approached us, and by this time we were back under the Clo—Disillusionment Charms, so there was little chance of anyone seeing us, but she did anyway. She wanted us to follow her. We did. She brought us to her house..."

"Somehow that doesn't seem like the best idea to me, Aunt Hermione."

I smile and shake my head. "You're right. She made your dad go upstairs with her, and then...well, as it turned out, Voldemort's snake—you've heard of Nagini, haven't you? Yes—she was possessing the old woman's body, somehow, and she attacked your dad. I almost didn't hear what was happening because the snake was strangling him, but he got out of it somehow, and I ran upstairs...it was dark, and chaotic, and I can barely remember what happened except that your dad grabbed me and threw us out the window, and he Apparated us back to a safe place."

"...Wow."

"I don't know...I should have seen it coming, I guess. Now that I'm telling you about it, it just seems so silly that we followed the woman in the first place," I say with a rueful little smile. "We were in disguise, though; we still had the Polyjuice Potion, and the Disillusionment Charm on top of that...I suppose we just didn't see the danger until it was too late."

"Yeah."

We keep walking for a bit before I continue. "After that...Ron came back eventually—he had been trying to since he left, but he genuinely couldn't find us. So he came back. A little while after, we got captured by what were essentially bounty hunters, and they took the three of us to Malfoy Manor—"

"Did you really call it Malfoy Manor? Sounds like something out of a video game."

"How do you know what video games are?"

"Muggle Studies."

"Well, they shouldn't be teaching you about _video_ games in a _class_, in my opinion. Electricity, yes. Technology, yes. But—"

"Aunt Hermione..."

"Oh, fine." I roll my eyes, and we both laugh. "Yes, we called it _Malfoy Manor_. I'm sorry if it offends you." The atmosphere has lightened; I've been feeling rather gloomy, but peaceful, by remembering that last year of the war, and now I'm laughing. I toss my hair out of my face as a cold breeze blows it into my eyes. "Where was I? Oh...well, the Snatchers—that's what they were called—brought us to the Malfoy home, and they put Ron and your dad in their dungeon. Can you believe they actually had their own _dungeon?_" I ask with another lazy roll of my eyes, and James chuckles. Now my smile dies as I remember what happened to me there.

"Aunt Hermione? You okay?"

"Yeah. Yes. Sorry...they just...I have bad memories of that place. While Ron and your dad were in the dungeon, they found our friend Luna Lovegood and Mr. Ollivander—yes, the wand maker—there too. Oh, and another friend, Dean Thomas. Ron made such a racket down there, I could hear him from the hall upstairs..."

"Why weren't you with them?"

"Bellatrix...you've heard of Bellatrix Black, then, have you?" He nods. I swallow. "She decided it would be a good idea to torture us one by one for information. We had...something Voldemort wanted, and she wanted to know if it was real or a fake, and she figured I should go first..."

James stops and stares at me with a look of horror on his face. "They _tortured_ you?"

I nod.

"Son of a—"

"I hope you don't use that language around your professors."

"Do you have any scars?"

"No; she had a knife, but mostly she used the Cruciatus Curse. It doesn't leave marks."

"That's..." James swallows. "That's awful. Sorry I brought it up, you don't have to talk about it or anything."

"Thank you, but what happened, happened, and there's nothing I can do about it twenty years later, so don't you worry about it. In any case, Ron and your dad broke out of the dungeon and charged upstairs to rescue me before the Death Eaters gave me to Fenrir Greyback. He was a werewolf, of the worst kind—nothing like Teddy's father, Remus Lupin. Greyback would...when it came to the full moon, he would purposefully go where people were so he could do as much damage as possible, and I heard he loved to bite children especially so that he could raise them to hate the rest of us...he was an unspeakably awful person."

James looks appalled. "Sounds it."

"Yes."

"So...so they rescued you?"

"They did. And your dad got all of us out of there, even Luna and Dean and Mr. Ollivander. He had us all Apparate to Shell Cottage together...and there was a house-elf that helped us...his name was Dobby."

"Oh, Dad told me about him once."

"Yes...Dobby died that night, Bellatrix threw her knife at us as we were Apparating, and it...hit Dobby." I sigh and quietly dab away a tear that just leaked its way out of my eye. James nods gravely. "Then...we stayed at Shell Cottage for a while, and we plotted to break into Gringotts to steal another thing that Voldemort was keeping safe—"

"You _broke into Gringotts?_"

I blush a little at his shock. "Yes. It—it seemed like a good idea at the time, and it paid off in the end, so—"

"I don't believe it. Nobody can just break into Gringotts and get away, Aunt Hermione."

"Nobody can _anymore_. I know of at least once that it happened before we did it, but that was before they upped their security. We did rather displease them, after all. As far as I know the three of us are the only three people in at least a few generations to have broken in there, taken what we were after, and escaped cleanly." I can't help feeling a little boast come into my tone, if only because James is staring at me looking so astounded and impressed.

"Now that's a damn story."

"James."

"Sorry. A _good_ story. Why don't you tell it more often?"

"Because...it was part of the war. Your father doesn't like talking about it, and...I don't see any reason why we should dwell on it in any case. You learn about it in your history classes, after all."

"But you were _there_. You _did_ it all."

"You father did most of it. Ron and I just helped."

"He always tells me he couldn't have done any of it without you two, so don't be modest. I heard you stole a dragon."

I burst out laughing. "We did, actually. The poor thing was guarding the vault we needed to get into, and when we got out, we just...hopped on its back, helped it blast its way out of Gringotts, and then...we held on, until it dropped us off in a lake somewhere in the wilderness."

"I wonder how the Muggles explained a great bloody dragon suddenly bursting into the sky over London."

"I believe they said it was a late Chinese New Year's dragon that some teenagers let loose as a prank."

"What's a Chinese New Year's dragon?"

I sigh and run one hand back through my hair. "Pay closer attention in your Muggle Studies class, James, I'm sure they covered it at one point. It's part of a cultural celebration. By the Chinese. Alright?"

"Okay, okay."

"So we broke into and out of Gringotts and then Apparated to Hogwarts, where—"

"You can't Apparate anywhere on—"

"I know you can't, I mean we went to Hogsmeade and took a secret passageway _into_ Hogwarts from there."

"Well, why didn't you say that?"

"I forgot, I'm sorry. I'm very old, you know. My memory is beginning to fail me."

"That's a load of bollocks," James grins, and I laugh again. He reminds me so of Harry. Like father, like son. I am glad I've always been on such good terms with James. He's very bright. And since Ginny's been gone, he needs a mother figure to talk to about certain things, as all boys do. I have taken it upon myself to be that person for him. Honestly, who would be better suited?

"Well, nevertheless, we got into Hogwarts, and there was a huge battle that lasted through the afternoon and all through the night, all the way up until sunrise, when—your father finally killed Voldemort once and for all."

James is quiet for a moment. "That's when my uncle Fred died. And Teddy's parents."

"That's right."

We've been walking for quite a while. I haven't been paying much attention to where we're going, and I take the chance to look around me now. Somewhere down beside the woods. We've passed through a couple of fields, and we're definitely off the property. I smile guiltily to myself. "Want to turn around? I don't want some Muggle to shoot at us for trespassing."

James laughs. "Alright."

"Are you cold, dear?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

"I can charm your coat, if you want."

"Really, I'm okay."

"Alright."

We walk in silence for a ways after turning around back towards the Burrow. I enjoy spending time with my nephew. I'm glad he sought me out to ask about the war, painful memories or no. I wonder what inspired the curiosity in him. I suppose he's just the right age to be interested in that sort of thing. In any case, I'm glad he chose me to ask about it. Though I feel the need to impress upon him the reality that the war was not fun and exciting; that it was dark and horrifying and frightening, and nothing to be sorry about if you missed it. I open my mouth to tell him this.

"Aunt Hermione, why don't you like saying my dad's name?"

I blink. "Harry?"

"Yeah."

"I say his name. I talk to him, don't I?"

"Ah, nevermind. It's nothing."

I frown a bit as silence falls again. I haven't thought about it before. I guess I _do_ unconsciously avoid saying his name. I don't know whether that's because I think it sounds too intimate coming from my mouth, or because I'm afraid someone will hear something in my voice when I say it...who knows? Obviously it was a bad unconscious decision, if I drew attention to the fact that I avoid saying his name. Hmm. I'll have to work on fixing that. Mental note to self: thank James for bringing this to light.

"Tell me about something else."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. How you met Uncle Ron."

"Well, we've been friends since we were eleven. The three of us have."

"So did you meet on the train, or because you were in the same house, or class, or what?"

I grin suddenly. "You must have heard this story before."

"No, but now it sounds interesting. Go on, tell me."

"He and your father saved me from a troll."

"...Are you _kidding me?_"

"No!" I laugh as James stares incredulously at me once again. "I'm serious! Why would I lie? Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, his name was Quirrell, and he was actually working for Voldemort all along, but in any case he let a troll loose into Hogwarts on Hallowe'en, and I was—er—in the toilets when the news got round, so I didn't know what was going on, and Ron and your dad knew where I was, so they charged into the girls' bathroom just as the troll was about to clobber me. They took it on, too—if I recall correctly...Harry jumped on its back and stuck his wand up its nose, and Ron knocked it out with its own club."

"That's _brilliant!_"

"Yes, well," I say embarrassedly, not wanting to tell him that I'd been in the toilets crying because I had no friends.

"Nothing that exciting's ever happened to me at Hogwarts. It's not fair."

I puff out my cheeks, blowing a big breath of steam into the frigid air. "You should feel very lucky that nothing ever has. It sounds all fun and dandy now, but at the _time,_ it was terrifying. We were only first-years, after all, and had no idea what we were doing. Your father and I had been raised by Muggles, too! We'd never seen anything like it. Anyways, after that, we were all very good friends."

"You hadn't met before then?"

"We _met_ on the train at the beginning of the year, I suppose, but to be honest, we didn't get along very well at first."

"Why not?"

"They thought I was too much of a know-it-all. I was, really, but that's not the point."

We both laugh. I'm finding that I really enjoy telling tales of our adventures during our Hogwarts years. There was a time when getting house points mattered, and winning the Quidditch House Cup, and beating Slytherin no matter what at. It was a simpler time. Like a proper childhood. I won't go so far as to say that it was entirely normal—when you grow up best friends with Harry Potter, it's difficult to have a completely normal life—but it was much simpler than the later years of our teenagehood. Things just seemed to _happen_ around Harry. And to him. I've never been sure why. Destiny, I suppose, or something like it. I remember feeling sorry for him when we were younger, that he had to go through all of what he did; Ron was always jealous of Harry's limelight, but I wasn't. I suppose as the second-youngest in a family of seven, he must have grown up starved for attention, whereas I was an only child, but...I don't know.

"So you weren't _always_ friends with Uncle Ron and my dad, then."

"For long enough."

"Do you ever wonder what it would've been like if you hadn't been friends with them? With my dad?" James asks quietly. I nod.

"I've wondered, but I can't imagine my life being any different. What I mean to say is...my life still would have been touched by war. Your father would still have been my classmate, my yearmate. Who knows, maybe if we hadn't become friends in first year, we would have in second, or third. There's no need to think about what might have been, though. Like I said before—what happened, happened. There's no changing it. And for the record, I am _very_ glad that your father and I did become friends." I smile, a little sadly. I can't help it. "Very glad."

James is silent for a while. I believe he's trying to muster up the courage to say something, but I can't think of what it could be.

"Aunt Hermione, have you—did you ever think about—no, nevermind."

"Did I ever think about what?"

"Never_mind_, I said."

I'm surprised by how short he is with me. "James, there's no need to be rude."

He stops walking.

"Are you and my dad—are you—have—did you ever—"

My blood freezes in my veins. _Oh, no_.

"Just tell me the truth, okay? Are you and my dad—having—an—"

He can't say it. Just like Harry couldn't say it. Merlin, am I ever in trouble. My face is going to give me away. We haven't done anything. In twelve _years_ we haven't done anything, but still James has seen something there, and he suspects us of—good lord, the boy's only fifteen years old. _Oh, Harry_. What am I going to do? My heart is pounding, blood is draining from my face—

"James, let me stop you right there."

He stops trying to get the words out and stands there looking at me, his face red with embarrassment and indignation. I'm suddenly very cold. A bitter wind has come up, blowing my hair back from my face and stinging my already bloodless face with what feels like pinpricks of ice. I wonder if this is the reason he wanted to walk with me in the first place. Probably. How long has he suspected? Has he been planning this talk? Why did he ask me about the war—to draw me out into talking about Harry? To try and catch me saying something I wouldn't normally? He's been trying to play me all along. Cunning boy. A true son of Harry and Ginny. I am overcome with guilt and tension. Has he voiced his suspicions to anyone else?

"Well?" he growls.

Suddenly I feel sad. That he would suspect me so strongly of betraying Ron that he would accuse me of it to my face. I would _never_ have an affair, Harry or no. It is a betrayal. Of the one person you swore to protect and be faithful to. And I could not do that to Ron. No matter how much I love Harry, I could never do it. That is why I am so afraid of his intentions when he touched my hand tonight when he passed me the salt shaker—what if Harry can't wait any longer? Not that he was waiting for me—we decided a long time ago that it wasn't going to happen, for the sake of the family—but what if he's been waiting? What if he can't wait anymore, and he tries to—

I shake my head. I have to focus. James, here and now, thinks I am having an affair with his father.

"No."

He doesn't look convinced.

"James, your father and I are friends. That is all we ever have been, and that is all we ever will be. We are not having an affair, and never at any point in our lives have we had an affair. Your father was faithful to your mother for twenty years, James, and so have I been to Ron."

"You never touch each other."

"Beg pardon?" How does he notice these things? We've been so discreet...

"You never _touch_ each other. You don't give him hugs, or anything. It's weird. And—you get all funny around him. I know! I know you have!"

"James—" God, I have to calm him down—

"No, LISTEN, Aunt Hermione! You—you never touch him. He never touches you, and whenever he _looks_ at you, you get this funny look on your face, and he's _always_ looking at you. Always. How could—how could you _do—_"

"James, _please_ listen to me. Your father and I have _never_ been anything more than friends. Do you underst—"

"You're lying. I can tell, Aunt Hermione. You're my _aunt_. You've been—sometimes better to me than my mum, so I can't believe _you_ would do this to—"

"James, I know you're angry, and I know you think you know what's going on, but you have to believe me when I—"

"No! How could you—"

"James!" I have to do something. Anything. "_Listen_. Please."

He opens his mouth to shout at me some more, I'm sure, but appears to change his mind. He takes a few deep, calming breaths and glares at me, a clear indication that I should start talking. _Merlin_. What am I going to do?

"I swear to you. There is nothing going on between your father and me. There never has been, and there never will be. Am I making myself clear?"

After a moment or two, James speaks. "You aren't angry enough."

"Excuse me?"

"You aren't angry enough to be telling the truth. If there was _really_ nothing happening, you'd be surprised, and you'd get mad at me for even thinking it. Or you'd think I was joking. But you don't. Tell me the _truth_."

I let out a long sigh. "James. Look at me." He does, though he seems uncomfortable as he meets my gaze. "I love you, and your brother and sister, and your father, and Ron, and Rose and Hugo too much to _ever_ let _anything_ like that happen. It would tear the family apart, you know it would. You have obviously put a lot of thought into this. But listen to me when I tell you this: _we would never do _something like that. You know me. You know your father. We...are..._friends_." I lean forward just the tiniest bit as I say this. This is the most important conversation I have ever had with James, the most important thing I have ever said to him. He must understand. He _must_. Otherwise...I can't think about what might happen otherwise.

He is silent for a long time before he finally speaks. The tension kills me. "I believe you." A breath of relief escapes me in a rush. James looks at me. He's not finished. "I believe you. But you have to promise me one thing—promise me you love Uncle Ron. That's all I want to hear."

I hesitate for the slightest instant.

James notices.

He nods and grimaces slightly, looking away out over the fields we've been walking through. "I do. I love Ron, very much," I say, and I mean it, and he knows I mean it. But we both know it isn't enough.

"That's just great, Aunt Hermione."

I close my eyes and two tears slide down my cheeks. How could I have let it come this far?

"You know the reason I came to you instead of talking to my dad?" I shake my head. He sounds so bitter now...the tone of voice sounds wrong coming from him. "Because I didn't want to _burden_ him with this. He's still hurting 'cause mum left. Did you know that, Aunt Hermione? Does he talk to you about that?" I shake my head again, and tears begin to stream down my face. "Of course he doesn't," he spits, "because he doesn't want to burden _you_ with it. Or anybody else, for that matter, but especially you. Don't you see what you're _doing_ to him?"

"James—"

"No, I think it's your turn to listen this time." He's so _angry_. I can't blame him, either. What have I done? "You have to stop doing whatever you're doing, because it's keeping him hung up on you. You said you didn't want to tear this family apart—think about what you're doing to my dad! You're tearing _him_ apart! Don't you get that? He and my mum split up because of _you!_ Because she knew he loved you, and she couldn't take it anymore!"

What have I done...what have I done...

"Are you leading him on?"

"No," I whisper, tears making my vision blurry. The cold is starting to freeze the tear lines on my cheeks. "No."

"Then what are you doing?"

My oldest nephew stands across from me with his feet planted, arms folded over his chest, eyes hard. I should be angry with him, I should. For any self-respecting parental figure to let their young charge speak to them like this without reproach is not good. But how can I scold him when he's right? Every word he says, he's right. I have been nothing but cruel to—to everyone. Unfair to Ron. Unfair to Harry. _Oh, god, Harry...I'm so sorry._ I let it come to this. Harry's son thinks—and, to a point, he is justified in his accusations—that I am having an affair with his father. Ugh...I am _disgusted_ with myself. I thought I was hiding all of this. I thought...I thought—

"Well?"

I close my eyes. "James, don't be disrespectful." It's a risky thing to say, but even in this situation, I can't let him think it's alright to speak this way to his elders.

"You—" he starts, but I give him a look, and he breaks off, looking like he's swallowing his tongue. He isn't so far gone into his anger that he won't see reason, I suppose. That's good. I take a deep breath. And then another.

"Your father, your uncle and I have been through a lot together. You know that. There are—bonds that form between people when they go through what we have."

"That gives you _no right_—"

"This is not an excuse, James." That shuts him up, though he's still glaring sullenly at me. I take another deep, steadying breath, trying to work up the courage to say this. "I am telling you this...because I think you deserve to know. Now. When this sort of bond forms between two people, or three people in our case, it...it is entirely unbreakable. We can't ever fully be committed to someone who didn't share what we went through in the war. Your father loved your mum very much, James. You have to understand that. He did. It's just that he and Ron and I share such a strong connection that...it was always difficult, for him, to fully commit himself to Ginny."

"She was there, too—"

"And that is the primary reason that they stayed together so long." James's face falls. It's a horrible thing to hear about your parents. "She could never understand that he needed to be with Ron and I as much as her, if not more so. She wanted to come first, and she was always third. It's been like that since we were kids. And it must have been awful for her, I can't even imagine...but...that, unfortunately, is the way of the world."

James is staring miserably at the ground. His arms are still crossed and his hair is falling down over his face, covering his eyes. He reminds me vividly of Harry at that age. Are all Potter children cursed with having dysfunctional families? It breaks my heart to see James like this, hurting like this. And it is singularly _all my fault._

I don't want him to get even angrier, but I can't stand seeing my nephew hurt. I take a few steps forward and tentatively wrap my arms around him in a hug that is completely heartfelt. He stiffens and starts to push away, which breaks my heart, but I understand. Eerily, Ginny's brown eyes glare up at me out of his face. "I don't need you to comfort me," he chokes out, and more tears leak out of me. "You're the reason my mum left. You're the reason my dad's all alone right now, and he'd never say a word about it to anybody because he's such a good guy. It was _you_, Aunt Hermione. I—"

He breaks off into bitter, angry tears that he tries to force back. His voice is quiet and shaky. "I _hate_ you."

"I'm so sorry, James," I whisper. I know he hears me. The wind picks up again, stinging my face. I wrap my arms around myself. I'm sure I look a wreck. I've betrayed my family. I've made miserable everyone that I love the most. I didn't know what I was doing, and it got me into such a mess that I don't see how it could ever be fixed. I'll have to try, of course. But I don't know how much good I'll be able to do. The damage has been done. _This wasn't supposed to happen._

"You knew how my dad feels about you. And you didn't discourage him or anything. Is this why you never touch each other? Because you think it would make him more likely to—?"

"James...this is not something I'm going to discuss with you anymore."

"You can't just—"

"You're _right._ Are you hearing me? You're _right._ I have made many mistakes in my life, and I'm not proud of that fact. And now I am going to attempt to fix this. Okay?"

"It's not okay. You're leading him on, he _loves_ you and you don't even _care_—"

"James!" I snap sharply. He stops mid-sentence, surprised at my sudden anger. I will not tolerate him thinking that I don't care about Harry. It is the furthest thing from the truth. "You know that isn't true."

"Well from the way you've been—"

"Think about what you are saying. Harry is my closest friend. That you could even think that I don't care for him in the slightest is appalling to me." I make the boy look at me as I say it, and he doesn't respond immediately.

"Just promise me you'll stop giving him false hope."

That resonates within me. Is that what I've been doing? Giving Harry false hope that one day, maybe, we could be together? We can't, of course. It wouldn't be right or fair to our family. The children would be confused, resentful...Ron would be ostracized...oh, god, if we ever—Ron would be ousted. I couldn't live with myself if we excluded him like that. One of the trio can't just be left out; it's _us._ The three of us. We've always been...

But isn't Harry being excluded now?

"I promise."

James looks at me for a long time, gauging my honesty. Finally he nods once, slowly.

"Good."

With one last look at me, Harry's oldest son turns away and walks into the night, back towards the Burrow. I don't follow. Instead I walk out into the field, pull out my wand and quietly put a heat charm on my coat to keep me warm for a while longer. I have a lot to think about.

The wind has died down a bit. My hair is still being lifted off my face, but not as much as it was before. Winter makes the area still and silent; the sounds of animals are absent. The sky is clear. Stars glitter up there like the reflections of the moon on dark, still water. I'm reminded of a similar night over twenty years ago, when I was sitting outside a tent in which paced a dark-haired boy. I close my eyes as the memory takes me.

"_Aren't you cold?"_

"_No, not really." I shook my head. Harry stood behind me and looked out at the woods. We were both silent for a while; nothing could be said._

"_He'll come back."_

"_How?" I asked, my voice breaking on the word as I gulped back a sob. The tears that were always hovering just behind my eyes gushed forth. "He won't be able to find us, you know he won't."_

"_He will."_

"_That's impossible, Harry. And b-besides, he probably doesn't _want_ to anyways," I said shakily, my anger at Ron spilling over into my voice. Anger...sadness...the feeling of betrayal sat in my gut like the worst sort of sickness. I didn't understand how he could have left me like he did. I had never felt so wretched in my life._

_Harry sat down beside me and wrapped his arms around his knees, looking up at the sky with me. The stars glittered. I didn't think it was appropriate; nothing should glitter so prettily when there was so much horridness in the world. It made me sad that Ron wasn't there to share it with me._

"_Y'know...we're gonna get through this."_

"_W-what?" I replied, hiccupping as I spoke through my tears. I wiped my eyes with the end of my sleeve and turned to look at him. He glanced sidelong at me._

"_We're going to get through this. It's all going to be okay."_

"_How can you say that?" I asked, and broke down into sobbing again. I couldn't help myself. "He's gone. We haven't gotten anywhere on the Horcruxes in months. We don't know what we're doing or what's going to happen to us..." I trailed off, letting my misery take hold of me again. Drawing my knees up to my chest and burying my face in my arms seemed like the best way to sit. My shoulders shook._

_And then I felt Harry's hand tentatively pat the top of my back, and before I knew it I was crying into his shoulder with his arms around me as I leaned into his hug. "S-s-sorry," I sobbed. "I just h-hate that he left. I don't mean to t-trouble you or a-a-anything. I'm s-sorry."_

"_Shh," he said, awkwardly patting my head. His breath stirred my hair and the tiniest shiver ran down my neck. "It'll be okay. Trust me." Trust him...I shook my head. I couldn't believe it to be true, no matter how much I trusted him. Harry pulled away slightly and I looked up at him. "I promise, Hermione."_

A little warmth comes back into my cheeks as I remember that night. That was the first time I thought about Harry the way I do now. Of course I denied it to myself. There was Ginny to contend with—and, at least at the time, I couldn't dream of contending with her. Not to mention Ron. Needless to say, he was a deciding factor in my decision to deny to myself any feelings I might have had for Harry. Ah, tonight has been such a night for reminiscing...most of the memories I have of Harry have been bittersweet ever since the last year of the war. It's sad, I think, that I don't have many recollections of purely happy times shared with the man I've loved for the past twenty years. Bah...

Disregarding the cold and wet, I sit down in the snow in the middle of the field. A couple of hot tears run down my cheeks, their temperature shocking against the biting air, as I remember why I'm out here in the first place. _Poor James._ If only he knew the whole story. If only I could explain to him the connection between Harry and me, maybe he could begin to understand our predicament. I won't go as far as to say that this isn't my fault. I know it is. I just...wish I could explain.

I do have good memories of Harry. I do. All of them are, in fact. They're just bittersweet, because when I remember how happy I was at the time, I can't help but feel a little sad, because I can't be with him. I remember one time when I thought he might have felt the same way about me. This was long before _that_ night twelve years ago in my kitchen—this was at a ball that some women threw in honor of the eighth anniversary of the downfall of Voldemort. I remember Ginny thought it was silly that it happened on the eighth anniversary instead of the tenth. She and I were both pregnant at the time, I with Rose and she with Albus, but each only a few months in; neither of us had started to show yet. Goodness, was she ever beautiful that night. No man in the room could keep his eyes off her. She had this dress that changed colours from green to brown when she moved, and she was just gorgeous in it.

"_I can't believe how great you look, Gin," I said with another eager smile. She smiled back at me._

"_Thanks."_

"_Ladies, shall we go in?" Ron asked as he swaggered up to us, looking relaxed and happy to be there. I laughed as he offered me his arm, and took it. Harry came up behind Ron. He met my eyes first, and a smile broke out onto his face. It sent a little thrill of excitement through me, as it always did when he smiled at me. I blushed._

"_You look—good, Hermione," he said, a little awkwardly, and I laughed again._

"_Well, thank you. So do you." I managed not to let out a high-pitched giggle at his compliment. Ginny, standing beside me, stepped forward and wound her arm through his, planting a light kiss on his mouth, and then smiled. It tugged at my heart a little._

"_Are we going to stand around out here the whole night?" she asked playfully, and Harry shook his head._

"_Yeah, let's go in," said Ron, and the four of us—twenty-seven years old (except Ginny, who was twenty-six) and in the prime of our lives—walked arm-in-arm into the ball, the event of the decade, the eighth anniversary of Harry's triumph over evil._

_Immediately after walking through the doors to the giant ballroom, I was blasted by the sound of music and the buzz of conversation and clinking glasses. We threaded through the crowd and found a place to sit, and Ginny and I left our purses there with the men while the two of us went to get drinks for the table. Almost as soon as we had sat back down, Ron wanted to dance with me, and that meant Ginny was begging Harry to dance with her, too, so we all got up again, laughing, and headed out onto the floor with all the other witches and wizards._

_There were hundreds of people there. They'd come from all over England, Scotland, Ireland and Wales to be here tonight, in a huge celebration of joy and light. Every few seconds or so, it seemed, someone would come up and shake Harry's hand—after all, it was his victory eight years before—and then of course he'd introduce the rest of us, because he hates to be solo in the spotlight, and then we'd all have to shake the person's hand too before continuing to dance._

_It was about two hours in since we'd got there that Ron and I decided to take another short break and have some wine. Not long after we sat down, I spotted Ginny leading Harry off the dance floor. I smiled and waved at them both; Ginny sat down beside me and pointed her wand at her almost-empty glass, refilling it to the top and taking a long swallow before smiling back at me and flicking a ringlet of hair out of her eyes. Harry didn't sit down. Instead he stopped in front of me, eyes sparkling, the hint of a smile playing about his lips as he held out his hand._

"_Dance with me?" he murmured, and I admit, I blushed. Ron, beside me, grinned. I reached up and took Harry's hand with a demure smile and let him lead me back onto the floor, where—appropriately, in my mind—a new song was just starting. It was an old, quick-paced waltz, so he lifted my one hand into the air and placed his other on my waist, grinning steadily. I obliged him and put my free hand on his shoulder, and we were off. The music flowed around us as we swirled through the other dancers, Harry occasionally twirling me around on the spot before pulling me back towards him. Somehow, at some point, his hand moved from the side of my waist to the small of my back, making us closer, and my arm may have slipped up around his neck from his shoulder. We whirled around the dance floor keeping perfect time; I'd never seen him dance that well. He must have been practicing with Ginny for weeks beforehand._

_The look in his eyes...it was like he had never seen me before that dance. Wonderment. Joy. I'm sure my expression mirrored his, as he turned me around out away from him and then spun me back into his arms. I had never felt so strongly about him as I did then. My heartbeat quickened, I was breathless...he dipped me low, and I looped both arms around his neck. At the bottom of the dip time seemed to stop. His face lowered almost enough to touch mine—and our breath mingled in the scant inches of air between us...my eyelids flickered, wanting to close..._

_And then he lifted me back onto my feet, and my senses returned to me once I had my balance. The music didn't stop and neither did we. Another minute, one last final whirl, and it was over. The skirts of my dress swished around my feet as we stopped where we stood, my hand still firmly clasped in his, his hand on my back, my arm keeping him close to me. The green of his eyes filled my gaze; I couldn't look away. Breathlessness. It infected me with a heady, dizzy feeling. Around us people were in motion, clapping for the orchestra, but we didn't—couldn't—move. I wanted to stay like that, in his arms, forever._

_Someone jostled me, and the spell was broken. I blinked and dropped my hand, turning pink as I took a step back and laughed embarrassedly, but Harry didn't laugh. He smiled faintly, unable to erase the look on his face of what I can only describe as wonder. I tucked a lock of hair back behind my ear and smiled shyly up at him._

"_Thank you for the dance, Harry."_

_He nodded, just barely, and I turned to make my way to the little table where Ron and Ginny were sitting with our things. Ginny was sitting rigidly in her chair—jealous much?—and Ron's nose was buried in his wine glass. I glanced back over my shoulder at Harry. He was still standing there, watching me go._

I think that was the first time _he_ realized how he might feel about me. I still don't understand how he could ever possibly love _me_—plain, bookish, motherly Hermione. Perhaps I put myself down too much. Little things he does, and has done over the years, let me know that he still cares about me.

Now...now I know that's not a good thing.

How could I have let it come so far? It was supposed to fade over the years, not grow stronger. Harry...I expected him to stop, to move on, to go back to loving Ginny like he should have all along. All I've ever wanted is for him to be happy. And he would have been, if not for me. I never saw it like this until James confronted me tonight. I am the cause of all his unhappiness. He would have been happy with Ginny if not for me; if he hadn't fallen for me, I would have continued quietly existing, loving Ron in one way and Harry in entirely another, and I would never have said a word. I can confidently say that, just as I can confidently say that I would never have an affair, even with Harry. I've betrayed my family enough without doing that.

I have to end this. When I get back to the Burrow, tonight, I'm going to talk to Harry and tell him it all needs to stop. Our personal feelings aside, we can't keep going on like this; it is going to tear the family apart. I thought that my being with Harry would tear the family apart, but apparently it's happening anyway. So I have to put a stop to everything. I will tell him we probably shouldn't spend any time alone together anymore. And I'm going to try to get him to spend more time with Ron, as well. That should help.

I stand up slowly and brush the snow off my backside, but it's soaked through. My wand does the trick. It definitely pays to be a witch sometimes. I wish there was some way I could just wave my wand and fix my problems...but magic doesn't work like that, unfortunately. As I walk back towards the Burrow, following James's tracks in the snow, I stuff my hands into my pockets to keep them warm. My hair blows into my eyes a little.

And I stop.

It won't help.

Nothing of what I've decided to do will help anything. I'll still be miserable. Harry will be even more miserable. James will always be miserable, knowing what he does. Ron will catch on eventually. He's bound to. Especially if I've been slipping up and giving myself away enough for James to notice. That will lead to a falling-out between Ron and Harry, and...he might even leave me. That will be awful for the children. Poor Molly...two of her children will have gotten divorced, and one disappeared off to France. Good lord...I didn't see this coming when I was eighteen. If I'd but known what I was getting us all into...if only I'd known...

I can't fix it now. It's gone too far. I don't know what to do. I wish there was someone I could talk to. _Mum._ My heartstrings twang painfully as I think of her. She died five years ago in Australia, not knowing she had a daughter in England. I check up on my parents every once in a while...and five years ago, when I did...I learned she'd died. I hadn't had a chance to reunite with her, or say goodbye...my _mother_...

I clear my throat briskly and squeeze my eyes shut against the tears, continuing to walk towards home. I can't think about her now. I have to concentrate on what's at stake here. My family, right now. Ron. _Harry._ Merlin, what am I going to do?

I can't push Harry away. It's not in me to do that. He needs me more than ever now, with Ginny gone—what am I saying? This is the sort of reasoning that got me into this mess in the first place. God, I don't know what to do...if there was anyone who'd know...but there isn't. I'm on my own.

But maybe I don't have to be.

Or maybe I do.

The thought has, obviously, occurred to me to leave Ron, regardless of my feelings for Harry. It would be awful for everyone, yes, but in the end, wouldn't it leave us all happier? Ron could find someone who would truly love him in every way...I could...well, to be honest, if that happened, Harry might propose to me on the spot. That would be unseemly. But the notion is alluring. Leaving Ron, being able to make my own decisions about my happiness without having to worry about hurting the ones I love...it sounds...heavenly. Like a huge weight has been lifted off my chest; relief. More tears well up as I think, surely, the idea of leaving your husband should not be accompanied by a feeling of relief. But here I am.

It will be hard. For everyone. Especially James; knowing what he does...but what about Rose? She'll think I've betrayed her. Hugo too. And Albus. And Lily. And..._Ron._ How can I even think of—?

Suddenly I gasp and hunch my shoulders against the air, shaking with sobs. It's awful. It's so awful. But I can't go on living like this. I have to leave him. I have to trust that we can be civil to each other afterwards, at the very least for the sake of the children. The damage will be irreparable, but I have to hope that some part of our friendship will be salvageable; that some ghostly sense of camaraderie will remain. For now, though, I have to get back to the Burrow. I have an obscenely large Christmas dinner to put on for tomorrow. Twenty-four people to cook for! I shake my head, slowly and carefully stowing away any thoughts of what I've decided to do.

I can see the lights of home up ahead now. Walking the rest of the way doesn't take long. Taking a deep breath, I open the kitchen door and step inside.

_Smile, Hermione. Smile._


	6. Age 40: Hermione

**A/N: It is a Sunday, six weeks after Hermione's fateful conversation with her nephew James, and her momentous decision to end her marriage. The children (and Harry) are back at Hogwarts.**

**It is always darkest before the dawn. But the dawn is coming.**

--

I can't look at him.

It hurts too much. How appalling, that the man I've been married to for twenty years, walking beside me now, can cause this much...no, wrong choice of words. I caused it myself. This is all my fault; everything wrong that has ever happened in our lives—post-war, that is—has been my fault. Happy endings don't exist in this family.

The family that I, in a couple of weeks' time, will no longer be a part of.

I flinch inwardly as my stomach gives a little twist at the thought. _All my fault._ God, how did it ever come to this? What happened to all the loose endings we tied up? I...I don't know how I let it get this bad, how I let it come this far...my footsteps hitting the ground, crunching through the snow, sound like bombs dropping in the morning silence. Ron's right beside me, perfectly in step with my pace as usual. It seems strange. We've grown into the habit, over the years, of walking flawlessly beside each other, never missing a step, but...somehow I thought that since I...I just thought it would have changed, now that we're—not together anymore.

_We're not together anymore._

Two, separated. With each footfall I imagine that I can hear his heart thudding painfully in his chest...saying _love me, love me, love me—_but I don't. Can't pretend anymore. Can't be happy, can't make him happy, can't be with him. Can't, can't, can't, can't, can't. I hate that word. It all but defines me now.

We round a corner and the dark towers of Hogwarts Castle loom into view. _How_ am I going to tell them? My insides give another little wrench and the corners of my mouth pull down for a moment. I almost want to turn around and go home—but home isn't home anymore, and all it brings is tears. Only a swallow and furious blinking keeps my eyes dry. My _heart—_it hurts like nothing I've ever felt before. Loving Harry has been bad enough. This...this _guilt,_ this self-shattering weight, the knowledge that I'm tearing my family—_my family­_—apart at the seams...is tearing _me_ apart.

"_Ron...I need to talk to you." _

_He nodded and set down the stack of papers he'd been sifting through on the kitchen table. "What's up?"_

_She sat, her stomach roiling with nerves. A twitch of concern flashed through his eyes and he reached for her hand across the table. She let him take it, let him run his fingers over her skin, closing her eyes to savour the last time he might ever do it._

We're nearing the castle now. I see Ron's gaze flick towards me out of the corner of my eye. Concerned for me, as always. Though how he can look at me and not be overwhelmed by feelings of betrayal is beyond me. "Are you sure you're ready to do this?" he asks, and I squint at the glaringly bright snow beneath our feet. I shrug one shoulder, a stiff movement. He sighs. "'Mione, if you're not sure, we can go back and do it another day."

He's being too understanding. I can't afford to put it off any more than I already have. I told him two weeks ago that I was leaving; now it's time for me to break it to Rose and Hugo. If I wait any longer I might lose my nerve.

I shake my head, not breaking pace. "I'm fine." I sniffle a bit—maybe I can pass it off as being from the cold winter air—and stuff my hands deeper into the pockets of my coat. I open my mouth to say something else, I'm not sure what; meaningless, reassuring words...but nothing comes out. My lips close and I turn my head away. I still can't look at him.

My mind tumbles with possible openings to the conversation I'm about to have with my children, but none seem appropriate. I hope that when the time comes and I'm sitting down across from them, the words will come, but as of yet I haven't been able to think of anything to say. I just know I have to tell them. My poor babies...Rose, she'll think this is her fault, and I don't know how to convince her that it's not; and Hugo...I'm so afraid of what he'll do. I'm afraid he'll hate me. I'm not sure I could stand it if he didn't want me in his life anymore, though I could hardly blame him—I wouldn't want me in my life anymore, either. Not after this.

Somehow I have to make them see that eventually, in the long run, this is the only way we can all be...better. I know it would tear them apart to watch their parents struggle through a one-sided, unhappy marriage for the rest of their lives. And it would tear Ron apart, years from now, to slowly realize and admit to himself that maybe I wasn't happy. Not with him. And that would _kill_ him. Better that I remove myself from the picture now—should have done it years ago, should have saved them all this pain—than to let them all go on thinking we're one big, unbroken, happy family. While I died inside.

The great doors to the castle loom over us now. For a moment I pause, my steps faltering—how are we going to get in?—but even as we approach, they creak slightly open with maddening slowness, and Headmistress McGonagall appears in the space between them. Her heavy, dark green winter robes don't stir in the small breeze that comes up behind us as Ron and I meet her in the doorway.

"Hermione," she says in greeting, her smile slightly brittle from age and cold rather than from hard feelings. "Ron."

He nods at her and I step forward, unsure of whether to embrace her or not, but she solves my indecision for me and gives me a tender hug. The days of 'Miss Granger' and 'Weasley' are long over. The stern kindness she's always shown us has gentled over the years since we graduated from the school, and even with the gaping differences in age, I've found I can count the elderly headmistress among my friends. She pulls back and holds me at arm's length, no trembling in her limbs, no signs of infirmity in her face even at her great age. A formidable woman.

"Well, come in. I'll send for them. I assume you'd like to see...?"

"Yes," Ron cuts in, nodding again. "If we could have use of an empty room, an office maybe—?"

"You'll use mine, of course. Follow me, please."

We do so, the sound of our footsteps loud in the empty entrance hall. The doors creak slowly shut again behind us. As we climb the stairs, a few students pass by us—Ravenclaws from the blue and bronze in their scarves—on their way outside. They eye us with mild interest but don't give us a second thought as they head on towards the grounds. Too young, perhaps, to recognize our faces. They looked like first- or second-years. It's kind of refreshing to go unnoticed, not remarked upon, among people in the magical community; we _are_ something of a household name, after all, and I've grown used to seeing double-takes on the faces of those around me. It only reminds me of how much I love Hogwarts, and the thought that I start work here next year fills me momentarily with excitement. I'll be splitting my time between the hospital wing and the library, depending on where I'm needed most often; that will probably mean the library, but with the Weasley and Potter brood all still mostly in school, I'm not so sure I won't be spending quite a bit of extra time in the hospital wing, mending broken bones.

The thought sobers me. Everything leads back to the children, and what I'm about to do to them. I'm about to rip their lives to shreds. Just like I ripped Ron to shreds two weeks ago.

"_Before I start, I just want you to know that none of this is your fault."_

_A frown creased his forehead. She saw it out of the corner of her eye, unable to look him in the face. "What happened?" he asked, his concern growing with every second she stared at her lap. She felt tears waiting behind her eyes, tensing to spring. "'Mione?"_

"_Ron, I'm so sorry," she whispered, barely able to control herself. Best to just get it all out of the way, in one fell swoop—she looked up to meet his gaze with tear-blurred eyes. "I—I have to—this isn't working."_

My jaw clenches as I remember the pain, my mind trying to block out the knowledge that I'll have to do it again today, and as many times again as there are people I have to tell. Today will be the hardest, though. My _babies_ are going to be in anguish because of _me._ _My_ folly, _my_ stupidity twenty years ago, _my_ fault. Why is it always, always my fault? Why do I have to be the one taking responsibility for all this suffering? Why is it _my_ burden, every time? Couldn't—couldn't Ron have fallen for someone else? The selfishness of that thought sends a shudder through me. One of the portraits on the wall of the hallway we're passing through lifts an eyebrow.

"Come, now, he's not _that_ ugly, my dear."

I turn to stare at him, and see his reproachful eyes flick to one side—at another portrait, this one of a man so shockingly repulsive-looking that I have to blink. His face is covered in boils, his nose is a misshapen lump stuck onto his face like a child put it there, and he has about four chins. He sighs resignedly at me, and the sound is like someone passing wind.

"I know, I know."

"Now, Bart, don't be so self-deprecating," says the man who spoke first. "She didn't mean to stare, did she?" He gives me a sharp look, and I find a sheepish, apologetic smile somehow steal its way onto my face. I shake my head.

"No, sir." McGonagall hasn't slowed, and I hurry to catch up.

"There. Oh, _don't,_" exclaims the man, and I glance back over my shoulder to see him reach into Bart-the-Ugly's picture to stop him from dunking his head into a barrel of water, until then unnoticed by me. As I fall back into step with Ron, I can see the smile itching to spread across his features. It _was_ sort of funny.

My mind racing as it is, I almost don't notice when McGonagall stops in front of two gargoyles and says, "Tabby cat." The hulking stone figures shuffle aside, and the entrance to the Headmistress's office slides open, revealing the revolving staircase leading up to where I will all too soon be telling my children that their mother won't be living with them anymore. McGonagall gestures for us to go up, not intending to follow suit. I take a deep breath and follow my soon-to-be-ex-husband up to the great office.

At some point during our walk up here, she must have given a message to someone, because Rose and Hugo are waiting for us, already sitting on two conjured poufs by the fire. My breath catches in my throat, heart skips a beat in my chest, my foot falters in midstep. _I'm not ready, I can't do this, I'm not ready—_but it seems almost inevitable that I continue, though fear throbs in my veins, and even as I feel my legs start to give out, Ron quickly conjures a chair for me and I sink down into it. I don't know how to start. First I should compose myself; a mother's face should never show horror to her children.

"Mum, Dad!"

Rose hops up and leans down to hug me; Hugo allows Ron to ruffle his hair. "Hey, Squirt," he says, and then each child switches parents and I hold my son close. I don't know when the next time will be that he'll let me.

"What are you doing here?" Rose asks, eyes bright, and then she really sees my face. Her smile dies a silent death. "What's wrong?"

"Sit down, hon," says Ron as he follows his own advice, conjuring a chair beside mine and sitting down himself. Rose sits slowly on her pouf. Hugo remains on his feet.

"What happened?" he asks, his voice too loud, his eyes on me. Ron holds up a hand.

"Just sit down."

Hugo hesitates, then reluctantly does as his father asked. His gaze darts back and forth between us. He's only twelve. I shouldn't be doing this to him this young. It's the beginning of such a turbulent time in his life—I shouldn't be adding to the weight on his shoulders...Rose too, I shouldn't...

"Mum?"

My daughter's voice is barely a whisper. It hurts my heart.

Ron's warm touch on my hand. "Best just to tell them, I think," he says gently, and I nod, the movement barely perceptible. How can he be so _calm?_ He should be angrier, shouldn't care how I feel, shouldn't be so calm and understanding and accommodating. Somehow my eyes force themselves up from my lap to my children's anxious gazes.

A shaky breath.

"Your father and I have decided to separate."

"_What isn't working?" His frown deepened._

"_We aren't, Ron. Us. This—this marriage."_

_She paused for a moment to let her words sink in. Shock and disbelief warred with hurt and anger on his face. "If this is a joke, you're sick, Hermione," he breathed, and she shook her head, taking a steadying breath of air. "Can we talk about this?"_

"_That's what we're doing."_

"_But are you—are you saying you don't—you aren't going to _leave,_ are you?"_

There is stunned silence in the room. Rose seems to wilt like the flower she's named for. A sense of relief would be nice, that I finally got it off my chest, but...there's nothing but hollow despair. I try to steel myself for their inevitable outburst, their rage at me, but it doesn't come either. Rose just keeps looking at me, as if waiting for me to say something else, as she sits there sagging onto her pouf. Hugo is surprisingly speechless as well.

Ron clears his throat and starts speaking once it's obvious that I'm not going to any time soon. "You both should know that of course it's not your fault."

This raises me out of my stupor. "You mustn't think that, no. Merlin, no. This—this is my decision. I—" I break off; I don't know what to say next. Holy hippogriffs, I'm _awful_ at this. And once again, Ron has to take over as I struggle to be coherent.

His hand twitches, and I know it's because he was going to pat my knee. A twist of uncomfortable, awkward guilt spasms through me, but he just looks steadily at the kids and speaks. "Your mother and I"—_us both_, he says with subtle emphasis, not just me; I don't deserve his civility—"have been having...some trouble. For a while now. And we've been trying to fix it, but it isn't working, so we're going to go our separate ways."

"_Why?_"

Rose breathes the word, and I try to fight off the painful contortion of my face. "Because we'll both be better off apart," I say, and I'm relieved that my voice stays steady. "And please, please—know that this is our decision. It has nothing to do with you, there was nothing you could have done that would have made us more compatible or—and we still love you. We both love you, so much, and _nothing_ will _ever_ change that." Ron nods in agreement beside me.

"Who...I don't understand. You're _happy._ You're school-year sweethearts; you were best mates for EVER before—how aren't you happy?"

I take a steadying breath, and it comes out sounding like a sigh. "It's...complicated."

_She bit her lip and didn't answer, which was answer enough. The stricken look on her husband's face was too much to bear. She felt hideously like a homewrecker—only, it was _her_ home she was destroying._

"_You're leaving." He fell back against the back of his chair, his hands starting to shake. "You're...is—is there someone else?" he asked, choking on the last two words. There it was. The deadly question. She didn't want to answer, didn't know how. There _was_ someone else, who she was in love with and who was in love with her (or so she assumed; you can never really know what's in another person's mind or heart). But she wasn't leaving Ron in order to be with him. She was leaving Ron because being married to him was no longer the best thing for her, nor for him, or anyone in the family. If the two people in a marriage were not both fully committed and happy...then...what was the point of staying together?_

_She lifted her gaze to meet his, calm and steady. "No. There's no one else."_

"That's not an answer," Rose snaps, and I try not to let my wince show. Here comes the anger.

"Who's moving out?"

It's the first thing Hugo's said since we began the conversation. My gaze flicks to him. His face is...I can't tell. Not impassive, but sad, sort of, and...angry? I can't _tell,_ I can never tell what my own son is thinking and it's never bothered me more than it does now. Is he confused? Does he understand? I should give him some credit, twelve-year-olds aren't stupid—especially not any twelve-year-old of _mine­_—and yet I always want to coddle him. I really shouldn't.

"I am." He looks at me, and the weight of his gaze forces mine down to my lap. Ron has to step in again while I recover myself.

"She just found a flat in London that's available soon. We've been packing her things together, deciding who's going to get what, and so on."

"It's a very nice place. And...it's a two-bedroom, and I'm going to get a futon couch for the living area as well, so...I'll have enough space for you two to visit." This last part takes some courage to say—I watch closely to see their reactions. What if they don't want to visit? What if they hate me _forever?_ What...what will I _do?_

"Where...are we going to..." Rose looks dazed. She frowns and shakes her head a bit, blinking. "I don't understand."

"What don't you understand, sweetie?"

"You never fight, or anything," she says, and I hear her voice start to waver. Her frown deepens. "You're not at each other's throats all the time, not like Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny were—so how come—how come—?" She looks up at me, and a big crocodile-size tear rolls down her cheek. Then another, and another. Her face starts turning red. "You're not..._how come you're splitting up, Mum?_"

Aaugh...my heart is _breaking._

"Because there are—it's better this way, and please believe me, darling, it's true. Your father and I don't want you two to...it's just not working anymore, and that's all." I spread my arms, pleading with her to understand. "I'm sorry I can't explain it any better than that."

Suddenly, Hugo is on his feet. Without a word he walks to the door and opens it, then goes down the revolving staircase and disappears out of sight.

Stunned silence for a moment. Ron starts to rise. "What the—?"

"He's just angry." Rose has composed herself a little, possibly because her brother just stormed out. Her eyes are clearer. "He doesn't know how to deal with it." How does _she_ know that? I feel a surge of dismay—of disappointment in myself. My daughter knows my son better than I do.

"I'll go talk to him." Ron stands up fully and glances at me. "Are you...?"

"Yes, I'm fine. See if you can...do anything." He nods and disappears down the stairs after our son. _Our son._ Already the phrasing seems strange; we're not a _pair_ anymore.

There is a silence. It rings hollow.

Rose draws her legs up under her body and doesn't look at me right away. When she does, her eyes are clouded with unshed tears again. "Damn it." Oops; didn't mean for that to slip out.

"Mum, don't swear." She says it like a reflex, and the ghost of a smile plays about her mouth for a second; now it's gone. She seems to shrink in on herself as she whispers, "So...why are you separating?"

I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair again. "It...it isn't because I don't love your father. I do, very much. But we aren't compatible in a relationship, and I love him in a different way than I used to." I blink back sudden tears of my own, and she notices. "Which is why it's breaking my heart to do this to all of you, because I love you all so much and I would never do anything to hurt you. That's the last thing I want."

"Then don't," Rose pleads, the tears once again spilling over onto her cheeks. "Don't leave, Mum, please just stay, we—you _can't_—" Her lower lip trembles as she fights to keep her voice steady. _I am in agony._ "Dad—he wants you to stay, doesn't he? I don't want you to go."

"I'm not going anywhere, baby girl," I say in a soft voice to mask my own barely-suppressed weepiness. "I just won't be living with your dad anymore."

"Y-you don't l-love us anymore."

"Rose!" I cry, and even as I see her scowl through her tears I know she only said it because she's angry and upset. Still. I lurch forward onto my knees in front of her and my hands fly up to cup her face. "I love you more than anything else in the whole world, you and Hugo. You know I do." She's hiccupping with every other breath. God, my chest hurts. So much sorrow. "This is not about either of you. You two are my life. My _life,_ Rosie. Look at me, please." She obediently meets my gaze, her face reddened. "I love you. Remember that." With a nod of acknowledgement she looks down and away again, perhaps in embarrassment; perhaps she just can't look at me anymore. I wouldn't blame her. I'm the worst mother in the world. How can I see her, this beautiful young woman, my _child,_ in _tears,_ because of _me?_ How does a parent make these decisions? How can I carry on talking to her now? Will she ever look at me the same again? Will she—or Hugo, for that matter—ever forgive me, ever be able to understand? For all of our sakes, I hope so.

Now she speaks, quiet and low. "Is it because of—of somebody else?"

That question again. My heart skips a few beats, but this, at least, I can answer honestly. "No. I made the decision independently, purely because your father and I will be happier apart. I am not seeing anyone else, nor have I."

"Really?"

"Really."

She stares off into space for a few moments. My spirits lift briefly; is this the first step to forgiveness? But then—"Why can't you just be happy _together?_ You were before." She still has tearstains on her face, but no new ones are forming. A good sign. "Weren't you?" she asks, and my face falls as she turns to me with fresh tears welling up. So much for that. "Were you ever?"

"Yes. Once."

"What happened?"

I sigh. Again. "I...I don't know. I suppose these things happen with time. We spent a lot of time in marriage counseling during the years too, you know."

"You did?"

"Yes. Even before getting married, we saw a counselor, just because we'd been fighting so much. You know how we used to fight." She nods slowly. "Instead of it going away, getting better, it just...didn't get spoken out loud. That may have been a bad idea in retrospect. We just didn't want to fight in front of you two."

She nods again, a slight movement. The overwhelming urge to hug her comes over me, but...I painfully remember how James stiffened and pulled away when I tried to comfort him six weeks ago. I could bear the rejection coming from my favourite nephew. Not from my daughter. I wish there was a way I could just make it all better. Doesn't every parent wish that? That they could wave their wand and Vanish all their problems? Too bad problems aren't concrete objects, or I, for one, sure as hell would. Screw 'face your fears'. Who needs bravery?

...What kind of Gryffindor am I?

My back straightens almost involuntarily, and Rose glances at me. I look her right in the eyes. "Honey, your father and I both love you very, very much." I plant a kiss on her forehead and smooth the hair out of her face. "If there's any way I can make this easier for you, please let me know." She pauses, then shakes her head.

"No, it's okay," she mumbles, sniffling a bit. I conjure a tissue for her. "Just...don't disappear, okay?"

"What?"

Her eyes start watering again as she looks at me. "Don't go away and never come back. Like—like Aunt G-Gin—" she breaks off and starts gulping in air to fend off more sobs. Now I put my arms around her and hold her tight, rocking her gently back and forth as she cries into my shoulder.

"Hush, Rosie, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere, remember? I will never, _ever_ leave you. I'm going to be right close in London all summer, and then I'll be at Hogwarts all during the year. You remember? How I'm working in the library and the hospital wing?" She nods weakly, not moving her head from the crook of my neck. "I'll see you all the time, whenever you want. I'm not going to disappear, I promise. It'll be okay. Trust me." She shakes her head now, trying her best not to cry but still getting my robes wet. "Hey." I pull away slightly and she looks up at me with big, tearful eyes. "I promise, Rosie."

--

We talked for a good while after that. Mostly about the reasons behind the separation, but also about other things. I explained what the differences were between Harry and Ginny's divorce and ours; how they couldn't even handle being around each other by the end of their marriage, and how with Ron and I, it was simply a matter of incompatibility. We're great friends. But though Ron has strong romantic feelings for me, I don't—can't—return them. Rose did ask why. And she asked, again, if there was somebody else. I told her first of all that it was complicated, and second of all that no, I was not seeing anyone, and reassured her that I would never cheat on Ron. Which, of course, I wouldn't. And didn't. And never wanted to.

This thing between Harry and me...whatever it is...love, affection, attraction; it never made me want to be unfaithful to my husband. Made me wish I wasn't _married_ to him, perhaps, but I would never be so disloyal to the man I pledged commitment to. Maybe I'm just too saintly to ever besmirch my purity like that. HA. What a joke.

I love Harry. I was young when it started, but it hasn't faded with age. I wish I could know how he feels...but even if there was a time, years from now perhaps, when we were both single and still felt strongly about each other...the children wouldn't understand. How could they? James, for one, would never accept it—that I know for certain—and...

I still haven't seen Hugo since he walked out of McGonagall's office an hour ago. Once Rose said she had some homework to finish, we both left—and even though of course she's still upset, we parted on good terms, which fills my heart with hope for the future—and now I'm walking through the halls, on my way to Harry's office. I wonder if Ron found him first, or if he's still with Hugo. I hope he's not too upset...I hope he even let Ron talk to him. And if not, I hope he'll let Rose talk to him. She's always been able to make him see sense.

Like that time, a few years ago now, when he and Lily had a huge row over some silly thing (mind you, I say it was silly, but it was obviously extremely important to them), and didn't speak to each other for two weeks. Finally Rose and Albus got tired of the fighting (most likely because it was ruining the family Quidditch games) and each talked to their younger sibling about it—something we, the parents, hadn't been able to do without Lily and Hugo stomping out of the room, growling, "You don't _understand!_"—and somehow it worked. Literally the next day, they had both apologized, and were magically best friends again.

Sometimes I worry that I so very much don't understand my son. But he knows I love him. And I suppose that's enough.

"Um...excuse me, but are you...um?"

"Pardon?" I look around, coming out of my thought bubble, and realize that four kids are standing in front of me. They look about Rose's age. The one speaking is a boy. He smiles shyly.

"Are you Hermione Granger?"

Oh. I feel the usual blush rise to my cheeks as I nod. "Yes, I am."

One of the girls elbows the other girl. I bite the inside of my cheek so as not to laugh.

"Can..._no, I don't want to ask, you ask!_" hisses the boy to his friends, blushing much more furiously than I am and turning around. I smile and wait patiently. I'll sign whatever they want, though I don't know why an autograph is such a prized item. One of the girls steps forward now.

"Is it true you're going to be working here next year?"

I blink in surprise, and my smile widens. "How did you know?" I hadn't realized an announcement had been made. Or maybe the children have been talking. More likely to be the latter. Not that it's a big secret or anything.

"We know Rose. She told us."

"Ah. Well, I'm happy to say that yes, I will start work at Hogwarts in the fall."

"Cool," says the boy who first spoke, grinning widely at me. All three of his friends look at him, and he sighs, blushing again. "Can I have your autograph?" he mutters, and with heroic effort, I don't laugh at him.

"Of course." He hands me a little booklet and digs in his bag for a quill, then hands me that too. "What's your name?"

"Lawrence Davies."

I write a quick note in his book and sign it with a flourish, then hand back both. Lawrence beams at me. "Thank you so much, it's great to meet you, thanks again!"

"Not at all," I reply in what I hope is a good-natured tone, and give the four a little wave which they all return. They go off down the hall, babbling excitedly to each other, and I continue on my way toward Harry's office.

Once I get there, going through the Defense Against the Dark Arts room brings back floods of memories. Quirrel, Lockhart, Remus (that one comes with a pang), Moody (though it wasn't really him, it brings another pang), Umbridge, and Snape...we had quite the range of professors come through this room. After the war, it took a year for Hogwarts to resume fully, and Giorgio Mirando took over the position. He taught for twenty-one years, effectively proving that the curse on the job was definitely broken, and now it's Harry. I wonder how long he'll be teaching here. Probably for the rest of his life, if I know him.

There's a note stuck to his office door.

_Back soon!_

That's all it says; I assume Ron found him and is talking to him. I owe him that, at least. Ron should be the one to tell Harry. They've been best mates since the very beginning.

I don't know how the three of us are going to work, now. Ron probably won't be able to be around me for...I don't know how long. At least a while. I don't think we'll ever be able to get our friendship back to normal. I mean...we spent twenty years married, and now I'm leaving him—how can I expect he'll ever want to even see my face again? I hope this doesn't distance him and Harry. That would just be _awful._ And, again, all my fault. I should never have married Ron, not when I was in love with Harry and I _knew_ I was in love with Harry.

But he married Ginny first.

So I figured...why not?

And Ron has made me happy. We have two beautiful, beautiful children, who are each growing up into smart, sensible people. He's been a good husband, better than I ever thought he could be. We had rough patches, sure, but doesn't every couple? I justified it to myself over and over every day of my life. Until...almost thirteen years ago now...that night in my kitchen...

Why can't I just let it go? Why is it _still_ such a big deal? It seems that every time something happens that has even remotely to do with Harry, I end up thinking about that night. Hell, I end up thinking about it whenever I think about Harry at all. It's ridiculous. I can't help picturing how completely I lost it, going mental with stress in my own kitchen purely because his closeness was agitating me. And then I told him, which I still think was stupid.

Stupid.

What a word.

I was stupid to fall in love with him in the first place, and I was stupid to marry someone else. But what could I do, when the object of my affections was getting married to my boyfriend's sister? And it wasn't as though I didn't love Ron. I did, still do. Just—as I've said—not romantically. I liked the idea of spending my life with him, because he's one of my best mates, and even though we fought all the bloody time, that didn't seem to matter so much...though my reasoning may have been clouded by Harry's marriage to Ginny. A sort of if-you-can-get-married-so-can-I situation. I'd like to think it was subconscious. I can't remember. I hope so.

On a whim, I turn the knob on his office door, and it opens. I quietly let myself in and close the door behind me, then turn and observe my surroundings. It's cluttered in here. Oh, it looks finely organized at first glance, with only a few scrolls and parchments on top of his desk and neatly arranged, but if I know Harry, everything will be 'put away' the way he usually puts things away—every which where. I walk over behind his desk, feeling a bit self-conscious but deciding not to care, and open the top drawer. Sure enough, it's stuffed with papers, some crumpled, and various odds and ends. I feel a smile creep onto my face. I knew it.

I should have made more of an impression on him and Ron when we were younger. Maybe he'd have learned some organizational skills that would have carried with him through the rest of his life...alas; unfortunately, it apparently was not to be. I feel silly, snooping around in his desk. I probably wouldn't want anyone snooping in _my_ desk, if I had one. I close the drawer with a guilty sort of smirk and look around some more. Maybe I'll find something in here that will give me a clue as to how he feels about me. A scribble on the corner of a piece of parchment—_Harry + Hermione_ encircled by a heart.

I laugh out loud at that thought. How old am I, twelve?

And...now a cold, sobering reminder washes over me. I'm not even legally separated from Ron yet. I haven't even moved out of his house. I've only just broken the news to my children—and already I'm giggling about Harry like a schoolgirl with a crush. I disgust myself. They should make a post-divorce law: no having _fun_ until one year has passed. Then at least I could wallow in my guilt and regret without adding more guilt on top of it for feeling happy. Ugh. I should just go find Ron and go home.

_Not my home anymore._

I hate this.

Just as I'm about to turn and leave the office, the name at the top of a roll of parchment lying on the desk catches my eye. I lean closer and unroll it, but after reading the first couple of lines, I feel sick with guilt and embarrassment, and I drop it back where it was before.

_Ginny,_

_How are you? I hope your Aurors are treating you well. I've heard that the French Ministry is very well disciplined; I'm sure you appreciate that._

_I know you probably don't read these, because you haven't responded once, but it can't hurt to keep trying..._

Harry still writes to her.

Oh, _God._

Wave after wave of guilt and sympathy and heartache crash over me. The unfairness of it incenses me. How could she do this to him? How could she receive letter after letter—I don't know how often he writes, but it's been almost a year and a half now, and this obviously isn't the first or the second—and send nothing but silence back in return? They were married for as long as Ron and I were! Surely there would be _some_ ties of lingering affection that would let her see what she's doing to him...

Or maybe she's so spiteful that she _wants_ to make him suffer.

No. That was a decidedly uncharitable thought. I've always liked Ginny, though she did seem a bit irrational about some things, especially towards the end. And then she up and ran away—for lack of a better term—to Paris the year before last. A bit of a head case if I ever saw one.

I wonder if she does read his letters. We all sent them to her immediately after she left; Mrs. Weasley especially wrote at least once a week for two months. But she never did respond. I suppose Harry just...won't give up. My heart goes out to him tenfold as my fingers graze the unfinished letter.

Voices from outside stir me from my painful reverie. I straighten, still standing behind Harry's desk. The door opens and he walks in, looking over his shoulder at whoever he's talking to.

"Yes, I'll be out in just a moment, I just need to grab something," he calls, and steps forward into the room. He sees me as the door swings closed behind him. I try for a small smile; it comes out feeling weak.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hi," he says, caught off guard. "I was just talking to Ron..."

Ah. So he knows, then. I nod and try again to smile. It still feels more like a grimace. I feel horrid.

"You're...you're leaving him, then?"

"Yes."

He's still standing just inside the door, looking unsure of what to do. He rakes his fingers through his hair, and something clicks into place in my mind. So _that's_ where I picked up that habit...

"I guess that explains why you haven't written in a while." Oh, yes—I'd forgotten...I haven't written to him since I told Ron I was leaving him. It would have been too hard to make light conversation. He scratches his neck and looks at me. "Are—are you—alright?"

No, of course I'm not _alright,_ you great bloody fool, I've just told my _children_ that I'm _leaving_ their _father_ and I feel like my insides are trying to strangle me from within as punishment and I just found out that you _(I love you)_ are still writing to your ex-wife, my ex-sister-in-law, who hasn't written you back once in almost a year and a half and now you're standing there looking all..._something_...in fact, I can't tell _what_ the expression is on his face right now. Sympathetic, empathetic, sad—I think—but why isn't there any anger? I would've thought he'd be furious with me, leaving Ron like Ginny left him. Though the circumstances are different. And the way I'm going about it, obviously, is far different. But still—I'd have thought...he'd be angry.

"I—I don't—no, not really," I finish weakly, and his face falls. I wish I could let him _hug_ me or something. I need it.

"I'm sorry. You must feel right awful. Tea?" he asks awkwardly, and I follow his gaze to a little teapot sitting on the windowsill. I hadn't noticed it there. In fact, I'd love a spot of tea, but if Ron's right outside, we should invite him in, and I don't know if I'm ready to handle being in a room with just the three of us yet.

"No, thank you. Is, er, is Ron waiting outside?"

"Oh! Yes. I'll get him. Unless...you wanted to stay...?"

Yes. Unequivocally, undeniably, unquestionably yes. But I shouldn't. Not if Ron's ready to go.

"I..."

I'm saved from answering by Ron knocking on the door himself. "Harry, you still in there? I need to go find Herm—oh." Harry opens the door and now it's the three of us in a room. "Hullo."

"Did you catch up with Hugo?"

He nods. "Talked to him for a bit. He's pretty angry...I dunno, maybe we should give him a bit to cool off. Come see him next week again or something."

"If he'll speak to me," I murmur, and both men's faces pale.

"He will," Ron assures me at the same time Harry asks, "Why wouldn't he?"

I shake my head. "In any case, you probably have marking to do, don't you, Harry? And Ron, I know you have to get back to that case you're working on, so why don't we head out and I'll...I'll make dinner, or something."

Neither one of them looks comfortable with my plan. Oh well. "Alright, I guess," says Ron sort of reluctantly, and Harry nods. They turn to each other and shake hands. "See you, Harry."

"Yep."

Ron turns to me and says, "I'll just be outside if you two wanted a word before we go." I nod in thanks. He's so understanding lately that it hurts. He goes back out into the classroom as I come around from behind the desk and pause in front of Harry. "I'll—I'll write, of course, and see you..."

"Soon, I hope," he says, looking concerned for me. I half-smile up at him, sadly.

"I'd like that."

As I turn to go, I feel something completely unexpected—_his hand on my shoulder._ I stop and stare up at him, wide-eyed, wondering what the hell he thinks he's doing. He just looks worried, though. About me.

"Hermione, I...I want you to know that I'm here for you, whatever you need, anytime. You know that, right?"

I can't break eye contact. My legs have turned to jelly and I think my brain just melted into a puddle of goo. _I love you._ I love him. I love him I love him I love him I love him...

Harry sighs. "Please don't hesitate to come to me, okay?"

"I..." I can't find my voice, I don't know what to say, I'm so overwhelmed. I manage to nod, and swallow—hard—and finally blink. "Thank you," I whisper. It's all I can do. I'm helpless for him. I can hear a tiny part of my mind screaming '_You're an intelligent woman! React, damn it! React!!_' But I can't. What's wrong with me? Why does love turn people into idiots? I'm not even divorced yet! _Ron is right outside this door!_

"You know how I...feel about you."

My heart jumps into my throat at his unexpected words. His hand is still on my shoulder. I think I'm going to die from feeling so torn between elation, melting, and guilt. He looks worried still, and a little uncomfortable, but resolute—as if he's been thinking about how to say this to me. I swallow again.

"I just...please don't let that...cloud your mind, if you ever need...someone to...talk to."

Somehow I break through my frozen state, and a smile—a genuine, warm smile—comes over my features. Shocked at my own daring, I reach up and gently touch his face, sending tingles all down through me. "Thank you," I say again, and—in a moment of downright insanity—I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. He looks stunned. I smile again, softly, and leave.

As the door closes behind me out in the classroom, I see Ron standing in the far corner, looking at the pictures on the wall. He glances over. "Ready to go?"

I nod.

It doesn't feel long before we've reached the gates at the edge of the Hogwarts grounds and step over the threshold, then Apparate back to the Burrow. Ron sits in the living room and works on his case while I make dinner for the two of us. It's strange, doing it. I feel out of place. Like I've already moved out and I'm visiting, even though this kitchen has been mine for twenty years. And, for the first time in a long while...I'm lonely.


	7. Age 42: Harry

**A/N: A year and a half after Hermione left Ron. It is now May. She started working at Hogwarts that fall, and settled into her new position as nurse/librarian quite comfortably. The divorce finalized a few months ago. Hermione is living in a flat in London during the summers, and Harry is still at his house in Godric's Hollow.**

**Just to get everyone up to pace, let me clear up some things about the ages of everyone in the story at the present point.**

**Harry, Hermione and Ron all turn 42 this year (Ginny, 41). James just turned 17. Albus and Rose are 16 and turning-16, and Lily and Hugo are both turning 14.**

**Harry's POV now.**

**--**

"**You'll be surprised to see how far you can go from the point where you thought it was the end."**

_**Anonymous**_

**--**

Bollocks, crumpets and dandelions. Where the _hell_ is my lesson plan? I had it all bloody written out and everything, just two minutes ago, and now the bell's about to ring and I haven't got a clue what I'm doing next class. It's the last class of the day. I _hate_ it when this happens. And it's Albus's class, too, heaven help me; I don't know what I'm going to do with those nutters if I don't find that plan. Bunch of little wankers. I was never half as rambunctious as they are when I was their age. It's not that they're _bad_, necessarily, just impossible to control, and thus impossible to teach anything. At least they're all impossible together. Al's friendship with Scorpius Malfoy has made serious improvements in Gryffindor-to-Slytherin relations over the years they've been here, because of course they're the most popular boys in their year, which I suppose shouldn't surprise me—after all, Draco Malfoy was Scorpius's father, and Ginny was Al's mother. It's in their blood to be well-liked.

Damn, damn, damn! Where is it? Papers and scrolls fly every which way as I tear apart my office looking for the stupid parchment with my plan on it. Curses! It was perfect!

Giving up temporarily, I collapse into my chair and grab a scrap piece of parchment to write on. Now, what had I been going to do? Something about curses...OH! A wide grin spreads across my face as I recall the plan. I only just got permission from McGonagall to introduce it. It's a new thing, something that hasn't ever been tried before in a Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. I was going to start it with my sixth-years, but this lot is _almost_ in sixth year, and even considering their lack of control, I think they're up to it. Not to mention, of course, that they're going to have a blast. I scribble furiously for a moment or two before deciding that I'll just wing it. There's only thirty seconds till class starts, anyway.

_Brrang!_ And there's the bell. Okay, time to get this baby Mandrake rolling. I push my chair back and walk out into the classroom as it fills with yammering fifth-years, and I immediately start waving the desks to the sides of the room. You know what, though, I think we'll need more space than that. With another few flicks of my wand I shrink every desk to the size of my palm and stack them neatly on the ground beside the door to my office. I have their attention now.

"Bags in a pile by the door, please."

Everyone murmurs as they do so, grinning at each other expectantly. They aren't prepared for what I tell them next.

"And wands away."

"Huh?"

"Away, please, Mr. Longbottom." Neville's son Basil grumps at me under his breath. Yeah, yeah, the 'cool' professor telling you to put your wand away usually heralds as a bad thing, but not this time. This lesson won't be a lesson in the traditional sense. I'm taking a leaf out of the collective Muggle book and playing a game.

"What're we doing, Professor?" asks Scorpius, and finally, I allow myself to smile.

"Thank you for volunteering, Mr. Malfoy. If you would please go stand in the middle of the room, and everyone else stand somewhere along the sides? Thank you," I say as they all do what I tell them, Scorpius looking a mite uncomfortable. Perhaps he thinks I'm finally going to get him back for his father being a royal arse. The thought makes me want to laugh—but doing so while pointing my wand at a student? A little evil for my tastes. I clear my throat instead. "Now. Malfoy, I'd like you to stop this spell from hitting you. _Stupefy!_"

The jet of red light hits him full in the chest, and he falls onto the oversized pillow I conjure a split second later. The class is hushed in stunned silence for a moment, then breaks out into confused murmurs. _What was the point of that? What's he playing at?_ I quickly Ennervate Malfoy and he sits up a tad groggily, blinking up at me. "What was that for?" he asks, and I lift one eyebrow.

"I asked you to stop the spell hitting you. You did not."

"I don't have my wand!" he protests indignantly, amid much clamour around the sides of the classroom. I sigh theatrically—here comes the good part.

"Did it ever occur to you to just...dodge out of the way?"

Malfoy stops, blinks. "Sir?"

I look around and address the whole class now. "Ladies and gentlemen, one of the only things that stopped Voldemort from killing me when I was fourteen years old is the fact that I ducked out of the way of a bunch of the spells thrown at me. I've noticed that since your generation hasn't grown up with anything more sinister than evil librarians—" there is a chuckle as the class recalls the infamous incident a couple of months ago when Hermione yelled at me in front of dozens of students for losing a library book (I found it a few days later) "—I've been seeing a lot of incidences where a defeat could have been avoided by just moving out of the way of a spell. Nobody has any practice dealing with real threats. Which, don't get me wrong, is a _good_ thing. But if a real threat were to ever arise, well...you'd all be sitting ducks, I'm sorry to say."

"So your whole strategy was to just move around a bit? That's your big secret?" asks a Slytherin girl, disbelieving. I shake my head.

"No, I mean everyone back in wartime did it. We had to. But no one _taught_ us to—we all had to learn it as we went along. I'm going to _teach_ all of you—and all my classes, as a matter of fact—how to move during a fight. Duels are just that: duels. In real combat, there's no standing around and counting to three. Your opponent won't wait for you to be ready. And you have to anticipate everything he's going to do. Now, I'm going to divide you into two teams. Malfoy, go stand against the wall, please."

I number everyone off, one, two, one, two, and then tell everyone on Team A to go to one end of the classroom and everyone on Team B to go to the other end. And now I produce the bright yellow foam ball that will be the core of today's lesson.

"Right. I am going to place this ball in the middle of the room, on the floor. On my signal, everyone is going to run and try and grab it, only there's no crossing the line." I draw a black line along the centre of the room and put the ball down on it. "And whoever gets the ball—no shoving, mind—is going to throw it at someone on the opposite team and try and hit them. The goal of this game is to have as many people on your team as possible by the end. If you are hit with the ball, you go to the other team. Once the ball has hit someone or hit a wall or the floor, you can pick it up and throw it at someone. Does everyone understand the rules?" Everyone nods, looking bewilderedly at each other. "Right. Three, two, one, GO!"

Dodgeball is the greatest game that Muggles ever invented.

For the rest of the period, my fifth-years scramble around the room, throwing yellow foam balls (I conjured two more at various intervals) at each other, laughing, cheering, jeering, and having a whale of a time in general. You might say they were having a ball. Ha. Ha. My own wit kills me. The noise is such that I don't hear the knock on the classroom door that comes with five minutes left in the lesson. It takes Scorpius to notice that there's a person standing out in the hall. He jogs over to me and says, "Sir, I think there's someone knocking." Right on cue, of course, whoever it is knocks again, and I thank the boy before turning and going to the door.

Nothing in the world could have prepared me for the sight of my ex-wife standing there when I open it.

"Hi, Harry."

My jaw actually drops a little. It feels like a hole has just opened up in the bottom of my stomach and all my insides have fallen out, I'm that shocked. I blink twice. Slowly, the noise from the class behind me dies down, and now such silence falls that you could hear a pin drop. Everyone knows her face. It's a face I haven't seen in nearly three years. Her red hair has lightened a bit, and her skin isn't as pale as it used to be; she must have spent a lot of time in the south while she was in France. She's carrying a small trunk with one hand, the other crossed in front of her stomach, clutching her elbow. She bites her lip and swallows, looking awkward. I blink again. I'd forgotten how attractive she is.

"_Mum?_"

Oh, Merlin. Albus.

Ginny looks over my shoulder and—here I'm shocked all over again—her eyes fill with tears. "Al?" she whispers, and smiles shakily. "You...you've grown, so much."

My son—our son, I suppose, though I haven't thought of it in such terms in ages—comes and stands beside me, looking at her in just as much disbelief as I am. He's on a level height with her now. Last time she saw him he was twelve.

"I...I've got to use the toilet," he says, looking unsteady on his feet, and even as I nod he stumbles past me and takes off down the corridor at an almost-run. Ginny and I both watch him go. She's the first to turn her gaze back to me.

"Suppose I should have expected that," she murmurs wryly, as though it were an inside joke. I don't see how it's funny. Her smile dies. "Can I talk to you?"

"My class isn't over," I say stupidly, and I glance over my shoulder at the students, all frozen in place, watching wide-eyed the scene in the doorway. "There's still a few minutes left. Do...d'you mind waiting?" Ginny raises her eyebrows a fraction at me, just like she always used to do. The small action brings back a wave of irritation—and now the anger starts coming through. This woman abandoned me, her husband, and her children, almost three years ago with little to no warning, and _now_ she wants to talk? And she's going to be _snitty_ about it?

She sees me straighten up and immediately backs off. "No, no, that's fine. I'll just...sit out here, then." She conjures a little stool and sits herself down on it just off to the side of the door, out in the hall. It takes me a moment to close the door and turn back around to face my class.

"Are—are you okay, sir?" one girl asks timidly.

I nod. "Sorry you lot had to see that. Er...how long is there left in the period, anyway?"

"Three minutes, Professor."

I glance at Scorpius, who answered, and he gives me a look that clearly says, _Are you really going to keep us here?_

No, I don't think so. "Right. Off you go, then. Collect your bags and things. No homework, just make sure you keep reviewing for your O.W.L.'s." There's a hushed level of excited murmurs at the 'no homework' announcement and the getting out of class early. There are a lot of furtive looks cast my way as they leave. I wouldn't be surprised if some of them lingered outside the room, hoping to catch a bit of the obviously imminent drama that's about to unfold in here.

All too soon the classroom's empty, and I go to the door and look down at her. "Come in, then."

She does. I don't know whether to sit or offer her a seat or just cross my arms and glare. She doesn't look much like she knows what to do either; she's sort of looking around at the room and not saying anything.

"You wanted to talk, talk," I say after a while, and she glances sidelong at me.

"Well...hi."

I pause for a moment to let her continue but she says nothing else. "That's it? Just 'hi'? You came a thousand miles back from France just to say hello? I'm not well pleased with you at the current time, I must say, so speak your piece before I lose my temper, please."

"Harry..." She spreads her arms out towards me in a pleading motion. "Hear me out, please. I'm back. For good. I transferred back to the English Ministry; I couldn't be away from...all of you any longer."

My mind reels in shock. Merlin. This woman. If there's any one person in the world who can turn my life upside down in an instant, it's her. She, to her credit, doesn't take a step closer or bat her eyes or look balefully up at me. She just stands there looking honest and open and...well, sorry. I shake my head—to clear it, not in any rejection—and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to think. "Gin, you can't seriously expect to just walk back into our lives, can you?" Not without some considerable explaining on her part, some heavy apologizing, and, I dunno, maybe buy me a dragon. Sounds about fair. Maybe walk through a field. That's on fire. In bare feet.

"I know," she says—though it's more of a miserable little moan—and, turning, she walks over to a window and stares out at the sunshine. It seems like it would be more appropriate if it were a really gloomy day outside. I suppose if I was feeling better about Ginny in general I'd appreciate the sun, but as it stands, I really wish she was still in France. My life would be a lot less complicated. And I thought I'd never say that.

Huh. That's actually strange. The past three years I've been wishing to myself over and over that she'd never left, and telling myself it was all my fault and I'd undo it if I could, if only to spare the kids the trauma of her leaving...and now here she is, and all I can think is that I wish she was anywhere else. I thought I forgave her. I thought I'd decided it was my fault and I drove her away, and the pain of her abandonment was still there but was tempered by the fact that I felt she'd had no other option but to leave. I spent three years trying to figure out how to tell her I'm sorry. And now she's here. And I'm just _angry_.

"Please believe me when I tell you that I regretted it a week after I left," she says quietly. "I wanted to come home. But I couldn't transfer back—I was the Department Head, and I had to find someone who could replace me and all, but I didn't know anyone there of course, and before I knew it a month had gone by and by then I'd seen the state of things over there. Harry, it's awful," she says, turning her face towards me. Her eyes are shiny with tears again, surprising me. "It was just terrible. There were Dark wizards practically running the country. The Ministry was a joke. We couldn't do _anything_. Half the Aurors were corrupt, but I had no bloody clue who, or who they worked for, or what have you. People were living in fear, Harry—fear for their _lives_. And I had no idea..."

This stuns me. "But it's France. It's not exactly a third-world country, Gin."

She waves a hand helplessly at me. "I don't know how it got to be so bad. I think it all just went downhill after Grindelwald's war back in the forties. I guess France never recovered. I don't know, Harry, but it was just awful, seeing all the corruption there...and the poor stupid Muggles, of course, have no idea that their own country's rotted from within, they don't know why their neighbours in the silly clothes are so frightened of the slightest shadow."

"How come nobody ever mentioned it? The Beauxbatons students seemed alright, didn't they? Back in—"

"I know, Harry!" she snaps. My brow furrows. "Nobody ever told me, either! But it's happening! There was only so much I could do in three years, too—there's still so much to be done, to help them, and I don't know that my successor will do a good enough job of it...but I couldn't stay there any longer, Harry, I couldn't. I...I missed my old life. I miss it."

_Now_ she takes a step closer, blinks her eyes a bit, and looks balefully up at me through her lashes. Damn woman. Who does she think she is?

_Brrang!_

The interruption of the bell seems to snap her out of whatever she was doing. There's a muffled hubbub of noise from the corridor as all the students of Hogwarts flow out of their classes and into the halls, chattering happily because it's the end of the day and it's gorgeous outside. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. Ginny turns back to the window, tucks loose strands of hair behind her ear and sighs. I drag my fingers back through my own hair in aggravation. What the hell is she doing _back here?_

Just as I'm about to ask her exactly that, the door bursts open and noise floods in. We both turn to look. James, Albus and Lily are all standing in the open doorway, the first and last looking utterly shocked.

"I told you," says Al, and then Ginny bursts into tears.

"James, Lily," she manages to get out through the waterworks. "You—you've grown so much—so handsome, and so beautiful, I—I'm so sorry I left, I've missed you all so very, very much—" She holds out her arms, and there is a pregnant, extremely awkward pause where all three teenagers hesitate. One by one, their eyes flick to me, as if looking for approval or permission. Well, she _is_ their mother. I nod. Lily is the first to cross the room and let Ginny hug her; the other two follow, almost reluctantly. Over Lily's head I see Ginny look at me with a hint of resentment, the old bitterness that I'm more of their parent than she is rising to the surface. Too bad. She left them. They're mine.

They step up to her one by one and give her the hugs she wants, looking solemn and stunned. Ginny holds them with a fierce tightness. I think she's trying to squeeze them into hugging her back properly, but they don't want to. I feel sorry for her despite myself. If my own children didn't want to see me...I—I couldn't live.

Ginny turns to me with tears streaked down her face, eyes openly pleading. "Could...I have a moment with them? Please, Harry, it's all I ask." I shrug, a little uncomfortable.

"Ask them, not me," I say with a bit more gruffness than I intended. Must be something in my eyes; they're stinging behind my glasses. This is ridiculous. "If they don't mind then it's alright."

She looks hurt. Again, too bad. What, is the thought that her abandoned children might not want to talk to her after three years of _nothing_ too hard for her to accept? No, I'm being harsh...if it was me...but I would never have left them in the first place.

Albus shrugs. Lily nods, and James puts an arm around her. The protectiveness I see in that small action reminds me of how Ron used to get about Ginny when we were all their age. I'm hit by a sudden memory, so strong that I miss the next thing Ginny says.

"_Harry, can I talk to you for a minute?"_

_I glanced up. Ron was standing there looking awkward and determined. I nodded. "Sure. What's up?"_

_After a moment of trying to decide how to start, Ron finally asked, "Are you and Ginny back together, then? I mean I saw you two walking in the grounds earlier, and you seemed pretty cozy, but I don't want to assume anything, or anything...but if you're dating her again, mate, you'd better tell me, 'coz I have to know who to throttle if she comes cryin' to me."_

_I tried not to grin, only because Ron looked so dead serious. Then I thought about it—really thought about it—and the silly grin at Ron's over-concern turned into a serene smile. I nodded a second time. "Yeah, we're dating again. And you have full permission to throttle me if I mess it up this time. I'm not going to, though, mate. I'm serious about her."_

_Ron turned a Vernon-like shade of red in embarrassment. "Yeah, well," he muttered, and half-turned away. "Er, good." He hurried out of the library. I chuckled to myself. I hadn't been lying. Just the thought of her face, surrounded by that mane of gleaming red hair...I loved her already._

I snap back to the present when Ginny, sounding as if she's repeating the question, asks, "So? Could I have a moment?"

"Oh—yes. Go on then, you can use my office."

The four of them—my family; dysfunctional and broken, but my family—head in there and close the door behind them. I'm left alone to think. Might as well put the time to good use. It's the work of but a minute to put back all the tiny chairs and desks where they ought to be, restore them to their proper size, pull up one and sit down. I've got some serious thinking to do. Ginny's back—for good, she says—and I have no idea what to do with her. I get the feeling she's expecting me to, I dunno, take her in or something. She can't very well have a flat already. She's still carrying her trunk, for Merlin's sake. Does she honestly think I'm going to just say, 'Hey, yeah, you can have our old room at home—I'll sleep on the couch in the summer'? Or...does she expect us to _share_ the bed?

If she does, she's sadly mistaken. I wouldn't go so far as to assume she's going to try and seduce me into rekindling our marriage. That's just ridiculous. She's a smart woman. She has to know that's never going to happen. Not even if I could erase the kids' memories of the past three years, and plant false memories of happiness in their minds. It's taken me this long, perhaps, but I'm realizing...as I think about it...Ginny and I don't work well together. At all.

She's inconsistent. One minute she'd be yelling at me for spoiling James, the next she'd be holding him and cooing that no, of course he didn't have to take his present back. She'd tell Albus that he couldn't go to Diagon Alley because she was too busy to take him, and the next day she'd go with Lily and forget to tell him. It's like she never got older. She still acts like she's a teenager, and the kids don't need a teenager, or a friend; they need a _mother_. I don't know how they turned out such good people. Heaven knows it couldn't have been our parenting.

...I was about to ask myself how they've lived without a proper mother figure, but...Hermione, I realize, has been that for them. Especially since Ginny left, but before then as well. Who did they go to when she was gone and I was too distraught to help them? Hermione. It was always her.

It's always been her.

Why am I such a stupid git? I just realized something—I never connected the memory I just relived with what happened right after it. There I was, sitting smug in the library, having just told Ron I was serious about his little sister, and then I heard someone crying—of course, it was Hermione, a few aisles down, who when I asked what was wrong just babbled something about having missed her chance. I always thought she meant she'd missed her chance to say goodbye to Fred or Remus, or Tonks, or something. She was talking about _me_, goddammit. What the hell is the matter with me? How come I never see these things until—_years_ later, when it's far too late to do anything about it? What is my PROBLEM?

She was in love with me since the _war,_ she told me when we were twenty-eight. _That night in her kitchen._ It all comes down to that night in her stupid bloody kitchen. It's the closest I've been to her in the past what, thirteen years? Fourteen years? How old am I? Let's see, almost forty-two, so...yes, almost fourteen years now. Jumping gnomes, that's a long time. I feel old.

I love her just as much now as I did then.

No—that's a lie. More, now. God, I can hardly remember living without her...way back before I knew I was a wizard, when I thought I was doomed to a life of the Dursleys, before I turned eleven years old. It's such a strange and distant time to me now. Anyway, it was a load of bollocks, being Muggleish and living with _them_ and not doing any magic...but most of all, I didn't have Ron or Hermione, and that, above all else, sucked.

I don't see Ron nearly enough anymore. I should invite him out here to grab a drink at the Three Broomsticks one weekend, for old time's sake. I think I will. I'll have to remind myself to owl him later. The only damper I see on that reunion would be the fact that he would ask, 'What's up?', and I'd have to either lie or tell him that just as I thought I might be getting to a point with his ex-wife, Hermione, where I could finally justify being with her, _my _ex-wife, his formerly estranged sister, suddenly wants back in all our lives. And then there would be this long and awkward silence, and then Ron would resurface from his Firewhisky and go, 'Sorry? Wasn't listening, mate, could you repeat that last?'

And I'd have to kill myself.

Damn it all to hell and back. I'm being selfish. I shouldn't be thinking just about myself and my frustrations; this is about the kids, now, and how this is going to work for them what with Ginny being back and all. We'll need to figure out a schedule or something. Weekends at her place during the summer; Christmas with me, Easter with her, or something like that. Arrangements. Splitting their time between us. Though she doesn't deserve to see them at all, and if I had any say in the matter, she wouldn't—but I'm going to leave it all up to them. However much they want to see her will be what happens. Hell, saves me the effort of deciding how much I want to allow. I think I'll let them work it out on their own. Be a good practice in diplomacy if nothing else. For them I mean. But I suppose me as well.

I'm babbling in my own mind. I don't even know if what I'm _thinking_ makes sense anymore, much less what I'm saying. Augh...hell and biscuits. How much time has gone by? I glance over at the clock on the far wall—it's a quarter past four. They've been in there for over an hour now, then. I wonder what they're talking about.

Suddenly I'm aware that the level of their voices has changed. Oh, no. Someone probably said something—I suspect Albus, he's the hothead—and now there's yelling, should I go in there? Should I just let them work it out and not interfere? Damn it, what's the right thing to do? Where's Hermione when I need her!

The door to my office bursts open and Al storms out in a fury, slamming it shut behind him. I stand up. "What happened?"

He glares at me. "I am _not_ going to see her, I don't care if I'm a bad son because she was a bad mother first and she can just _deal_ with it!" he snarls. I hold out an arm to block him from walking out the door. "Let me go!"

"What happened?" I repeat, and he takes a few deep breaths to calm down before speaking.

"Mum called Lily an underachiever 'cause she hasn't been doing so great in some of her classes, and Mum thinks it's because she's not trying hard enough. I told her where she could bloody stick it. Lily's crying now 'cause we all started yelling. I hope Mum's _happy!_" he says, yelling the last sentence so that the others could hear him in the office. I put a hand on his shoulder.

"Okay, calm down," I say, but my heart is pounding with resentment. I find myself wholeheartedly in agreement with my son. How dare Ginny come back and within the first hour, almost, reduce our daughter to tears with some snide comment on her marks, when she hasn't been a part of Lily's life since she even started school? My blood boils at the thought. Damn her!

Al looks up at me and sees the anger in my face, and actually relaxes a little. I suppose he feels better that I'm not going to upbraid him for cursing at his mother. In fact, I think he may have been justified. He could very well of course be exaggerating things, but I tend to gravitate towards his side of an argument between him and Ginny. Seeing as how she left us with little to no explanation three years ago and we've had no word since. Did I mention that I was upset by that?

"You shouldn't have married her," he mutters under his breath.

_What?_

Never did I think I would live to see the day when one of my children would condemn his mother like that. I turn to him, frowning, and he ducks his head. But he's still scowling. "Don't say that, Al."

"Why? Because it's disrespectful? I think she's been disrespectful enough for both of—"

"No, because if I hadn't, I never would have had any of _you,_" I say, giving him a look. He crosses his arms. "And besides, we were very happy together in our youth, though that doesn't necessarily cross over into the present."

"How come you got married so young anyway, Dad?" he asks sullenly, and I'm a little stung, I admit. "Seems stupid to me. Sure you liked each other well enough then, but everyone knows teenagers are dumb when it comes to love and stuff."

It's very strange hearing a teenager say that. "You're aware that _you're_ a teenager."

"Yeah, and I'm not about to go off and get married to my first girlfriend, because that would be _dumb!_"

Second. Second girlfriend. But that's beside the point—and he's right. It's a silly wizarding tradition. I suppose I felt that since my parents had married almost right out of Hogwarts, I could too. A thought suddenly occurs to me, and shocks me to the core. My parents were only twenty-one when they died. What if they hadn't been right for each other in the end, either? Ginny and I were happy for a few years, but then the glow faded, and reality set in. We weren't made for each other. If my parents had lived, would they have stayed married? Would it have affected my decision to marry early? Maybe if I'd had their example I would have made different choices.

I rest my forehead in one hand and close my eyes. "I'm sorry."

Albus looks confused. "You're sorry?"

"My 'dumb teenage decisions' probably ruined your lives—yours, Lily's and James's. I...I just never imagined, back then, that there would be a day when I woke up and wished I wasn't lying beside my wife. And I'm sorry for that."

Al's quiet for a minute or so. I sit down on one of the desks and rake my hair out of my eyes. Even cut shorter than I had it in school, it manages to flop forward into my face. What the hell am I going to do? I can't deal with this.

"Did...you ever wish it was somebody else?"

"Huh?" Ah, I'm so eloquent.

"I mean was there, er, anybody else? You would have...considered? If you and Mum fell through?"

"That's an odd question. You know I would never be unfaithful, even to your mother," I say admonishingly, but with a teasing note at the end. Al doesn't appear reassured.

"I don't mean cheating, I just...you never, y'know, thought about anyone else? Like a—a backup?"

I chuckle despite myself. "Al, you don't need a backup when you're already married."

"You're not answering me, Dad."

Hold on. How much does he know? What is this? Has Hermione been talking? No, what am I saying, of course she hasn't, but how else—he couldn't have figured it out on his own. I love the boy to death, but relationships are as much of a mystery to him as they were to me at that age, and I know for a fact that he could _not_ have figured this out by himself. No, there's more to this. Who else knows? Who...what if they _all_ know? Lily's devious enough to have sent Al as a delegate to try and catch me out. Well, I just won't tell him anything. Good for nothing, evil little teenagers. How dare they?

I look him right in the eye and raise one eyebrow. "Exactly what are you implying?"

"Exactly what are you denying?"

That rhymed. I wonder if it was intentional. I fold my arms across my chest and raise the eyebrow higher. "Albus Potter, what is going on here? You be straight with me, or there'll be trouble." The flash of guilt that steals over his face for a moment gives him away. Aha! I grin in triumph. "Well?"

"Er...nothing. I was just, just wondering. Casually." He shifts his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. Good lord, I hope I'm a better actor than he is. I lean forward—and he cracks, putting his hands up. "Nothing! It was just a stupid idea!"

"What was?"

The door to my office opens, and Al and I turn to look. James and Lily, his arm slung around her shoulders, come out first, with Ginny trailing behind. "Don't you think that would be a good idea?" she's saying, but James and Lily don't even turn around. A significant glance is exchanged between Lily and Al. I suspect she's in on it, whatever they're trying to do. Devious girl. And I bloody taught her everything she knows. "Harry, help me out here," Ginny says, sounding exasperated. "I'm trying to get them to see the bright side of all this. At least I'm back, right? I'm not asking for much, here. I just want to be a part of your lives again—Lily, James, stop walking away when I'm talking to you!"

Unbelievable. She's acting like she never left. Surely she realizes that they're all rational, thinking people now—not the children she abandoned, but teenagers that she once betrayed. They won't just fall back into the old swing of things, they can't! James is especially smart beyond his years, he won't...damn it _all,_ I bet he's in on it too! Why am I cursed with such devious and intelligent children? Well, I suppose it's a mixed blessing more than a curse. On the upside, they'll see right through Ginny's tricks, like I should have when I was their age. No, that's unfair. She didn't know any better than I did what we were getting ourselves into. The downside, anyway, is that now I have to figure out what they're plotting against me (or for me?).

I sigh and suddenly I'm sick and tired of these games. A wave of silliness rises up inside me, overflowing. I touch two fingers to each of my temples and say in a low monotone, "Chil-dren. Lis-ten to your fa-ther." I sound like one of Dudley's old cartoon robots. Goodness, my childhood was a long time ago...but Lily laughs, and even Al cracks a smile. The tension is broken. "Do the three of you mind waiting here while I talk to your mother for a moment?"

They nod, and Ginny—grumbling and frustrated—follows me back into my office. I sit down behind my desk as she settles herself in the chair across from me, looking bothered.

"So. You really think it's a good idea to come back out of the blue and spring that on us, and expect—within hours—them to want to come up with a viable, reasonable visiting schedule? Just like that? That's something to be worked out over weeks! Months, even!"

"Visiting? Well, I _thought_ maybe—"

"I can't let you stay in my house, Ginny. I'm sorry. Molly and Arthur will be more than happy to put you up until you find a place, I'm sure. Or Ron, even." Best to be frank and honest.

"No—I know," she says, colouring a bit. "I know you don't want anything to do with me, Harry."

"Please don't put words in my mouth."

"Well, you obviously don't!"

"Just because I don't want to _live_ with—? Ginny Weasley, for Merlin's sake, I don't think we can have a rational conversation right now. We're both emotional and we'll just end up saying things we regret. I think you should leave, and I'll Floo you at some point this week. Owl me to let me know where you end up staying. You know where I am."

Ginny shoves away from the desk and gets abruptly to her feet. "You know, Harry, you're just as stubborn as when I left. I'm trying to make peace here! I'm trying to be a good mother to my children—"

Bit late for that, now, isn't it? "What you need to _do_ is slow down. I'm sorry if this is coming as a shock to you" —though I don't see why it should be— "but it's unrealistic to expect to be able to jump right back into things," I say, keeping my voice as even as I can. My temper, however, is rising. She is so _frustrating_. Why doesn't she _see?_ Is it some personal case of entitlement gained from being the youngest, favourite child out of seven? How can she really be this self-centered? Some people, it is my theory, are born without the compassion gene. Or the thinking gene.

"I feel quite betrayed right now, Harry," she's saying. "I feel like I've spent the last three years working hard to give back to the world, and now that I'm home, my children have been turned against me. I could hold you up in court for that, it's illegal, you know!"

Now I stand up. It's pointless to remind her of her ungrounded abandonment. Pointless to wave the divorce papers in her face and tell her she can't make us forget the pain of the last three years; futile to point out the fact that she left me full custody of them when she left. She knows all that—she's a smart woman; she's just blinded, right now, by homesickness and apparent regret, and she's not thinking clearly. It's not her fault. "Ginny, please. The kids are probably listening to every word we're saying."

Her eyes flash. "Damn it, Harry, is that what you were doing while I was in here with them? Eavesdropping?"

I sigh. There really is no reasoning with her. I don't want to call her irrational to her face. That's just a recipe for disaster. "Please, try to see my side of this. I have a lot of work to do right now and I think we _all_ need to calm down before we can sit down and have a reasonable discussion about how things are going to work." Isn't that fair? Aren't I justified in saying it?

Ginny opens her mouth to snap back at me, then pauses, breathing heavily. Thank Merlin. Maybe she's feeling how worked up she is. With all these emotions running high, we'd never get anything decided. I nod at her, acknowledging her realization. Ginny nods curtly back and—her hand shaking just a little bit—tucks her hair behind her ears in a gesture so achingly familiar that it hurts. The separation hurts. The abandonment hurts. The looks on my children's faces when they see me hurting, hurts. Everything hurts. God, how did this _happen?_ How did everything in my life fall apart? Why did I think it was ever okay to drive Ginny so far away from my heart that she felt her only option was to leave her entire life behind to martyr herself in a foreign country? God, I've been so busy being hurt and righteously angry that I never gave any thought to how much it must have hurt _her_ not to see her family—and the Weasleys are so close-knit, always have been—for so long. Because of me. Because I drove her to it. Because I'm a _monster._

Maybe Ginny sees the sudden empathy in my face, maybe she's just emotional herself, I don't know, but suddenly she's blinking back tears. Merlin, how I hurt her. Sure, she chose a stupid way to leave and didn't even keep in contact with her own mother, but whose fault is it that she left in the first place, anyway? Mine. God. I hate myself. I ruined our marriage. She acted, but I provoked her. How long did she think I was having an affair with someone? Hermione or not, I was distant, I was mean, I was a despicable bastard and a terrible husband and I don't know that I'll ever be able to redeem myself.

Stupid.

"Gin," I start to say, but my voice cracks. Seems like there's an ocean-sized gulf in the few feet between us. She looks at me across the desk. "I'm sorry."

There is a silence. I don't know that there's much more I can say.

"I'm...sorry too." She dabs at her eyes. "We were both probably pretty dumb, huh?" she adds, and I manage to smile a little. I nod. "I don't know if I can forgive you." She looks me right in the eye as she says it. "I'm fairly stubborn. I hear that's just how redheads are."

I chuckle and squeeze my eyes free of stray tears. "I've heard that too." We both nod again, and pause. What happens now?

"Well, I shouldn't take up any more of your marking time," she says, trying valiantly to be brisk and businesslike. She moves to the door. "I'll just tell the kids goodbye and head over to my parents' place. I've missed them—" she breaks off as a flood of tears bursts forth at the thought of, I assume, seeing her mother at last after three years. I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. "I'll—I'll be seeing you, Harry—owl me and we'll—set up a time to—Floo about the k-kids and v-visiting and all—"

With a slightly jarring slam of the door, she's gone. In a panic not to show me she was crying, I think. I collapse into my chair after a moment and bury my face in my hands. What a hellish afternoon. First I lost my lesson plan, then GINNY shows up at my bloody classroom door, and now she wants back in our lives—Merlin, I need a _drink._

A few minutes later there's a tentative knock on the door to my office. "Come in," I groan.

Lily pokes her head through. "She left."

I nod and wave her in. Lily's followed by Al and James, the latter of whom closes the door behind him. I rub my eyes once more and clasp my hands together on the desk, looking at them. "Well. That went well."

James snorts. "Oh, definitely."

"I wish I were a little kid again," Lily mutters. I frown. Odd.

"Why's that?"

"Because then I'd be justified if I said, 'Daddy, this doesn't make any sense.'"

A heavy sigh escapes me. "C'mere, Lils." She does. I wrap my arms around her as she sits down on my lap, like she did when she was young, and she leans her head against my shoulder and sniffles. Poor girl.

"She said I was stupid," she mumbles, her voice muffled. I stiffen in anger.

"She what?"

"Not really, Lily," James amends. He's leaning against the closed door, arms folded over his chest. "Not in as many words, anyway."

"She might as well have," Al growls from where he's standing over by the window. "Underachiever," he mutters under his breath. "What bollocks. What a bitch."

"Al!" I say reproachfully. He glares down at his shoes and mutters an apology that we all know he doesn't mean. What am I going to do with these three? How can I make them see that it's not all Ginny's fault—and convince them that it's in their best interests to have a relationship with their mother? I may _personally_ not want them to see her, but I can't argue with fact: it would be better for them to visit her on at least a semi-regular basis than to never see her at all. They've had enough of that over the past three years, and it's healthy for youths to have two parents. I sigh again. "Look. All of you," I say, and both James and Lily look up at me. "I think you should all spend a couple of weeks with your mother over the summer holidays. Not too long; maybe one week in July and one in August, and that's it. You're all still in my custody, after all, and that's probably what's best, all current feelings aside."

"I'm of age," James reminds me. "My birthday was last month."

"You're still living in my house, and that means my rules." He knows I have him there, and grudgingly nods.

"Fine."

"Al? Lily?"

My daughter nods against my shoulder, and when I look over at Al I see him hesitate—then kick his heel against the wall in frustration and nod as well. Thank Merlin that's decided. I'll owl Ginny at her parents' place tonight about it. God, what a mess.

"I'll have you know I'm going under protest, and only because I have to," Al grumbles. I smile faintly in acknowledgment.

After a few long moments of silence, James says thoughtfully, "You know, while she was gone, I was angry she left—but I always sort of wanted her back, right, of course we all did...but now that she's _here_...I can't say I'm really...all that excited about seeing her, to be honest."

Al nods fervently in agreement. "Yeah, definitely. I know what you mean. I couldn't believe it when I saw her—the nerve, eh, showing up right in your class like that, Dad? After everything?"

"I don't know how to feel," Lily sighs unhappily. "Angry, sad, happy she's back, but not really...I dunno."

"It's confusing, I know," I say, trying to comfort her. I shift my legs—one has started to fall asleep from her sitting on my lap—and she wobbles a bit. "Sorry." She's frowning now. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she says, but the guilt overlaying her voice is such that I don't believe her for a minute. I lift an eyebrow. "It's just—I feel bad saying it, but—I feel like I _should_ be happy she's back, but I'm not. Or not as much as I thought I would be. Should be. You know? Urgh...I was happier to see everyone at Christmas than I am to have Mum back," she admits, looking shamefaced. "Maybe I'm a horrible person."

"Don't be daft, of course you're not," Al says impatiently. "That's what we're all saying, isn't it?"

"You're not a bad daughter, Lily," I say in a soft voice, and she hugs me.

"Yeah. It's Mum who's been the bad mother." I'm mildly surprised to hear James chiming in to agree with Al on this one. Much as I myself might agree just as wholeheartedly, I don't think it's best for them to be quite so united in being set against her.

"Now, that's not fair," I begin—and all three of my children turn and give me exactly the same disparaging look.

Alright, well, you can't fault me for not trying.

"I still say you'd have done better not marrying her in the first place," says Al defiantly. Lily looks askance at him.

"Al, how can you _say_ that? She's still our mother!"

"And then we wouldn't be alive, too," James adds. My point exactly. He glances at me as if for approval, or confirmation, and I nod slightly. Al juts his chin out and retorts that he still thinks it was a mistake for me to go after Ginny; Lily defends her, and I find my mind drifting a little as the three of them argue. This is all so mad. I wish...well, to be perfectly honest with myself, I really do wish Hermione were here. Everything seems clearer around her. Except my feelings, of course. Hell. Even though it's been a year and a half since she left Ron—_and kissed me on the cheek, and I'm still stunned about that, and the memory still gives me hope_—and she's been working here at Hogwarts for months, I'm still finding it hard to control myself around her.

I mean...childishly, I suppose, I thought something might have happened between us by now. Hoped that it would. But it's been ages. Suppose she doesn't feel the same way anymore? She must not. She can't be unaware of _my_ feelings, at any rate. I as much as told her right out that I'm still in love with her, that day in my office when she and Ron came to tell everyone they were separating. Surely she remembers that bit of information. So why hasn't she done anything? The only reason I can think of is that she just doesn't want to—maybe after all these years, all it took was her leaving Ron to realize that I wasn't the one who could make her happy in the end. Maybe the whole attraction for her was that it was forbidden. I'll admit that the thought has crossed my own mind, but continuing to be in her company over the past school year, I've come to fully realize that it's not at all true. I love her more than ever. And, perhaps naively, I _thought_ she felt the same way, but now it's been this long, and...nothing. I'm afraid to accept it. I can't. I don't know what I'd do. I have to believe that there's still hope.

"Dad!"

I blink, and return to the present. Lily's looking expectantly at me as James and Al stare coolly at each other. "Sorry, yes?"

"Aren't you going to say something? Haven't you been listening?"

"Oh, it's nothing, Dad," says Al, with an edge to his tone. "James here just suggested we might be better off if Mum had never left, and I think that's a load of crap. Where would we be, then, eh? Mum and Dad'd still be fighting all the time, they'd barely see each other now he works here all year round, and they'd like as not have split by now anyway!"

Ouch. It hurts to hear that, the ring of truth in my son's words stinging painfully. Was it really always that plain that Ginny and I were headed downhill?

"Well, by that logic, he might as well just go for Aunt Hermione," James says with a sneer—and my blood runs cold.

There is _no way_ that normal children—teenagers even—will ever consider what they might classify as incest (even if it's not—Hermione and I both married into the Weasleys, obviously). Kids just don't think about that as an option. When you're young, you never stop and think to yourself, 'Hey, I wonder if my father is really in love with my aunt?' Family is family. Period. It just never presents itself in their minds. I'm good with children. I _know_.

Which means that for James to make a remark like that, even offhandedly, the idea must have somehow been made clear to him. Something outside his self consciousness must have alerted him to the possibility—something so glaringly obvious that he couldn't ignore it—which means that I've let it slip accidentally somehow, been so obvious about it that even my son could see it. Maybe others can, too. Maybe everyone knows. Maybe I've been killing myself over what I thought was a secret, and meanwhile everyone I know has been laughing at me, or despising me...Ginny knew. Ginny was always the jealous sort, but I think she really knew that I was in love with Hermione. Good Merlin preserve...

All that thought took about five seconds. I look hard at my oldest son, who noticeably does not meet my gaze. Al is quiet—everyone is quiet—_too_ quiet—the comment about Hermione, likely intended as a throwaway retort, has shut everyone up for some reason, and it's going on too long, they'll all start actually thinking about what James has said—

"That's enough, boys." My voice is calm, authoritative. My professor voice. James and Al both glare sullenly at the floor. "I know this situation is upsetting. Maybe we all need a breather, and then we can talk more about it once everyone calms down."

"We're fine—"

"Albus," I say quietly, and he stops. "I mean me as well. I think we all need a few minutes. Why don't the three of you take your school things up to the dormitories, and then come back down here? Would that be acceptable?"

"Yeah," says James, pushing away from the door and picking up his bag off the floor by his feet. "C'mon, guys."

Lily gives me another hug and then hops off my lap to collect her things. I hear the three of them burst into animated chatter as the door closes behind them, and I drop my face into my hands for a moment. Bollocks! What a bloody great mess! I can't believe she's back—how in the _hell_ am I going to keep my head on straight, with exam season fast approaching? And as if I hadn't had enough on my mind already, what with Hermione being so bloody perfect that I can't keep my eyes off her even in front of other people, and now James knows something—_and_ Al knows something—good lord, maybe that's what he was being sneaky about earlier! Sweet baby Merlin. They _are_ all in on it. Lily giving Al that look after he tried to interrogate me, James talking about Hermione—

It almost seems as if they're trying to get me to admit it. For what purpose, though? I highly doubt they're that..._mean_, to want me to accidentally reveal my feelings so that they can...I don't know, get mad at me without me being able to deny it? Who knows? If I'm so good with children, why am I completely blind to what's going on with my own offspring?

A strange thought crosses my mind. What if they're trying to _match-make?_ Not that it's likely. It's just a thought, however stupid. It _could_ be possible. Though I doubt, again, that my life could work out so perfectly like that. Things like that don't happen in real life. Not to real people. There's no such thing as a _real_ happy ending. I don't know why we teach our children that 'happy endings' are something to strive for, when it doesn't ever happen. Ugh. How depressing.

I have to do something physical and take my mind off all this. With a grunt, I push back my chair and start pacing the length of my office, back and forth, back and forth for a few long minutes, until the movement becomes so automatic that I can think while doing it. Okay. Got to focus. Which weeks during the summer should I allot for the kids to go stay with Ginny? Should I ask her? Will it matter? Will she resist and be a world-class bitch about it and try to be difficult and—no, stay calm, it's not her fault, she was just emotional today and so am I. It's fine. Doesn't matter. We're both adults. She'll be fine with it. She can't expect much more, really, all things considered. She's lucky I'm even giving her two weeks with them.

So. Maybe...the second-to-last week of July, and then the second week of August, or something. Three weeks with me, one with her, two with me, one with her, and two with me. Nine weeks of summer. Sounds good to me.

While I have a few minutes on my hands, I should send her an owl. I know she only left a little while ago but I'm sure she's Apparated to Molly and Arthur's house by now. I spend the next ten minutes or so scratching out rude words that I've written into the letter, and then make a good copy; I'll take it up to the Owlery tonight. The rough draft gets shoved into a drawer to be forgotten until a later point, when I'll pull it out and depress myself by reading it. Why do I do the things I do?

Now, a knock on my door. That was quick. I didn't think those three could have made it to Gryffindor Tower and back so fast. "Yes, one minute," I call as I put away the quill and inkwell, and look around despairingly for a hand towel to wipe my smudgy fingers off on.

"Harry?"

The door creaks open—and Hermione peeks in, clutching a pile of books to her chest. I just about fall over. Has she heard already?

"Is this a bad time?" she asks contritely, and starts to back away, but I wave her in.

"No, no, of course not—what's, er—how're you? How's your day going? Fine weather, eh?" Damn it, I'm rambling. Hermione gives me a very strange look. "I'm just expecting—James and Al and Lily were just taking their things, we're having a family meeting—er, it's all very, hmm..."

"Oh! Oh, I won't intrude, then," she says, smiling warmly, and turns to go. At the door, she stops, though, and looks at me over her shoulder. "Are you quite alright? Has something happened?"

I open and close my mouth like a fish for a few seconds before sagging hopelessly. I must look a right idiot. "I thought the gossip must have spread through the school by now," I sigh, and drop back into my chair. I look up at her through helpless eyes. "Ginny's back."

In the following silence, a quill dropping would have sounded like a firecracker. I watch as Hermione's eyes grow wider and wider—and she promptly drops the stack of books she was holding.

"Oh, my god. Are you serious?"

I nod, burying my face in my hands. "She interrupted my last class of the day, Albus's class. He...didn't take it well."

"Oh, Harry..." she breathes, coming over to the desk.

"He ran out and got Lily and James, and I let the class out early and, er, we talked a bit. I let her talk to the kids for maybe an hour. She wants—she wanted—she wants back in our lives, says she's transferred back to the British Ministry; I _think_ she rather expected a warmer welcome than she got, to be honest, and I'm not entirely sure but it seemed like she almost expected us—that is, she and I—to jump right back into things, sort of where we left off, you see. It was bit awkward."

"I imagine _so_. She's back, then? Really? Oh, my god...after all this time..." she says, half to herself, dragging her fingers back through her hair. My eyes can't help but follow the motion. I want to be the one smoothing her hair out of her eyes when she's stressed. It's all I've wanted for years. I still haven't touched her since the day she and Ron told everyone they were separating; she kissed me on the cheek and I just about died on the spot. I've held myself back better since then.

"Yes. She's gone now," I say miserably, "but she could never resist making a scene. She'll be back by the end of the week, most likely. Anyway, the kids and I were just talking, and it got a bit heated—Al's all for cutting her out entirely, Lily thinks we should give her a chance, and I have _no_ bloody idea where James stands. One minute he's agreeing with Al, saying Ginny was a terrible mother, the next minute he's saying we all would've been better off if she'd never left." I rake my own hair out of my face. Is it strange that Hermione and I have the same habit? "I can't figure him out."

Oddly, she freezes in place. "Strange," she says, her tone careful and neutral.

I frown. "Do you know something I don't?" A spasm of guilt flashes over her face. Good lord, does _everyone_ know something I don't? Is this all just one big conspiracy party? What's going on here?

"Well, I suppose you would have found out eventually anyway...Harry, James _knows_."

My blood runs cold for the second time this afternoon. "He what?"

"He knows how—how you used to—he thinks, and he's right, that Ginny left you because you...well, he knows why. He guessed. Last year. At Christmas. I'm so sorry, Harry, he was so angry...I did what I could to calm him down, but he—he didn't like to hear it."

My ears fill with a dull roar. James knows. He knows I'm in love with his aunt. He's known—god, two Christmases ago? That was just before Hermione left Ron. Merlin. _Ages_ ago. A bloody year and a half ago. And he never said a word to me! What kind of—I can't believe it. I refuse to believe it. I _can't_ believe it. And he talked to _Hermione_ about it instead of me? What the hell did he say to her? 'Oh, sorry Auntie, I think my dad's in love with you, d'you mind stopping him making a fool out of himself?'

"Harry, please don't be angry."

I stare up at her. "I'm not," I say, my voice sounding dull. "He _knows?_"

She nods. It's not a happy motion. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

"It's...it's alright..." My mind is spinning. "What did he say to you?"

"He—er," she stops, biting her lip and looking reluctant. "I don't know—it was sort of a private conversation—"

"My son knows why my wife left me. That I drove her away, intentionally or not." My mouth is running—I shouldn't be saying these things, not to Hermione, but I just keep talking as my mind tries to catch up. "And he never told me, never confided in me, but he did in _you?_"

Hermione spreads her hands helplessly. "Harry, I'm sorry!" Her eyes start to fill with tears, and I hate myself. "What was I supposed to do, tell him to leave off and go ask you instead?"

"Anything! They can't—they can't know, Hermione, that I—they're my _children_, and I don't want them to know that I—"

"It's not as if you were unfaithful!"

"_I was as good as!_" I exclaim, my eyes blazing. I've stood up now. I lean forward across the desk toward her. "I've loathed myself for _so long_, for driving away their mother because I'm so in love with _you!_"

Hermione raises both hands to cover her mouth. Oh, my god. I said it. I said it right out loud to her face.

Neither of us has said it before. Not the words themselves. God. And she doesn't anymore—why else would she have waited so long after leaving Ron to say something, do something?—so I've just put myself out there for nothing. Nothing will ever be the same. What have I done? My hands start shaking. _Hermione, I'm so sorry..._

"I'm sorry," I say, my voice as unsteady as I feel. "I shouldn't have said that." It's silent for a few seconds as my heart sinks to around the level of my feet. I've ruined everything.

But now Hermione's eyes are blazing as she comes round the desk and takes my face in her hands and kisses me so fiercely that my legs almost give out and now I'm so overcome I can't bear it as my hands come up and tangle in her hair and hers in mine and she tastes like raspberry lip chap and I can feel my chest about to burst because she still _loves_ me, she does, still, after all this time, and I love her, god I love her _so much—_

"Uh, Dad?"

Tearing myself away, I realize the door's still open. And, exemplifying the worst timing in the world, my three children are standing there, watching. Everything.


	8. Age 42: Harry and Hermione

**A/N: This chapter picks up directly where chapter 7 left off, don't worry—mid-May, if you don't recall. Also, I'm going to be switching perspectives at a couple of points during the chapter: just flipping back and forth between Harry's POV and Hermione's POV. Just a heads up so no one gets too confused.**

**As this is going to be the final installment, I sincerely hope that all the readers have enjoyed the ride; thank you to everyone who's stuck with the story all the way to the end; and finally, a ****huge**** thank-you to everyone who's left even the shortest review—they've all been glowing and positive, and each one means a big deal to me. Happy trails, and enjoy!**

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And, exemplifying the worst timing in the world, my three children are standing there, watching. Everything.

"Oh, hell," says Hermione with such a resigned sigh that I swear I see Al barely suppress a snicker. _Well,_ my numbed mind rationalizes, _at least that's a good sign._ I can barely feel my limbs. I'm still reeling from the revelation that Hermione has just kissed me right full on the mouth with such a passion that I know she's been hiding her feelings the past fourteen-odd years just as I have—and if that wasn't enough of a shock, already on top of Ginny bloody coming back, now all three of my teenage children have just walked in on us. My body can't handle this. My legs finally give out and I collapse into my chair as Hermione turns to face the open doorway. She sighs again. "Well, come in. You lot are a sneaky bunch, being so quiet like that. How long were you standing there?"

How can she be so _calm?_ God, I can barely focus on not breaking down into a gibbering mess.

"_Quite_ long enough!" exclaims Lily. I watch her in a daze as she leads the trio into my office—James nudges the door shut behind him—and she marches right up to Hermione. "What on _earth_ is going on?"

"They were just sucking face, that's bloody what," says Al, looking at me almost in awe. He's probably never thought of his old dad as being a person with feelings for other people before. Can't really blame him. I'm still in a sort of mild shock, partially detached from the world. Probably should say something. Explain myself, and all that. Hmm.

"But—but—how long have—what the _hell,_ Dad!" Lily sputters. I don't think I've ever heard her curse before. Damn. Should tell her off or something. My vocal chords don't seem to be working, though. Interesting.

"I realize this looks bad, yes," Hermione admits, sounding worried and guilty. Really, if I just stand back from the situation, it's rather funny. Who'd have thought they'd all walk in _just_ then? Incredible comedic timing, if this were a comedy. Unfortunately I think it's more of a drama. Terrible timing, in that case. Bloody awful in fact. Wow, yeah; what bollocks.

...Oh. Dear. God.

The full impact of what's happened has just hit me. JAMES AND LILY AND ALBUS JUST WALKED IN ON HERMIONE KISSING ME. CRAP. CRAP CRAP CRAP. Devil hang himself and me as well—what in _Merlin's_ name am I going to do now? Oh, hell and biscuits, this is bad, this is downright dreadful, I don't know what to do, I can't _handle_ this much _shock_ to my _system_ in such short succession—

James is staring very hard at Hermione. Right, he knows. Oh, he _knows!_ How must he—did he know Hermione felt that way about me, too? Or did he just assume it was one-sided? Sweet baby Hippogriffs, what the hell, what the hell do I do here...

"So, er. What the good god damn was all that, then?" asks Al. "What with the face sucking and the declarations of whatever?"

"You heard that, did you?" I ask wearily, having finally found my voice, and everyone looks at me.

"Yeah, too right we did!" Lily snaps accusingly. She points a dramatic finger at me. "You better explain yourself!" Who does she think she is, my mother? She's my _daughter,_ for heaven's sake. She's not even fourteen yet. What does she know of heartache and longing and _years_ of denying to yourself that you want something, need it, and then finally getting it and having it wrenched away a split second later? What does she know about me? How can she possibly accuse me, when she has no idea how much agony I've gone through for the span of longer than her lifetime? Since before that night in Hermione's kitchen? _God, always that night—_

"I think perhaps it would be best if I explained, actually," says Hermione. She's still so calm and rational. Damn her for being able to even speak right now.

"It would be about bloody time," says James quietly, neutral-toned. It's the first time he's spoken. Oh, no.

Now, finally, Hermione's face falls, and a bit of the anxiety that she's been hiding shows through. "Yes, well, I'm dreadfully sorry you all had to find out this way. The circumstances aren't exactly ideal, I know. Can you agree to hear me out before getting angrier?"

"Yes," says Al instantly. For the first time a flare of hope rises in my chest. We might have an ally. His expression is still one of shock and surprise, but he doesn't look cross at all. Is it possible that he'll approve? If there's even the slightest chance, I'll take it.

Lily, standing in front of Hermione beside the desk, looks back and forth between us for a few moments, her chest heaving, before she grudgingly nods. She crosses her arms tightly and stomps around to the guest chair in front of my desk and plops down onto it, giving me a glare that—I notice with dismay—is on the borderline of becoming a sob. I seriously hope Hermione knows what she's doing.

"Well—first of all, I just want you to know that your father and I haven't...this is...er, this is the first time that's happened," she begins, looking slightly embarrassed. Hell, I would be too. 'Would be'? Who am I kidding? I very much _am_, thank you. Hermione pauses, presumably to see if any of them are going to interrupt, but they don't. James looks skeptical. He's back to his position of leaning against the closed door. Hermione shoots an unsure glance at me before asking them, "How...much did you hear?"

"When we walked into the classroom, we heard dad saying something loud, and then _you_ said you were sorry and something about asking someone else, and dad started freaking out about us knowing something and then freaking out louder and then, er, it got quiet and we came up to see what was going on and, er, there you were." Al turns a shade darker as he finishes.

"Nothing too clearly, then?"

"Not really." Al seems to be the spokesperson for the group. James is glaring sullenly, and Lily's quietly fuming, looking distressed.

"Hmm. Well, I don't know if that makes it easier or more difficult."

"What's there to explain?" Lily says, her voice betraying the slightest shake. "Why should we believe you that this is the first time? Who knows how long you've been sneaking round behind our backs? Dad, what about _Mum?_" Lily turns her eyes—really watering now—to me. "She's back! I know none of us were too pleased, but I thought...couldn't you be friends, or something? She won't ever let you near her if she knows you're with somebody else!"

"So, what, he's supposed to just never get in a relationship again?" Al asks. I look at him, and he looks at me, something fierce and defiant in his gaze. "Lils, you've got to accept they're not getting back together. It won't happen! Weren't you there for their fights?"

I feel like I should say something. Her eyes flit between Al and me as she flushes, embarrassed, and her expression grows more desperate. "I wasn't saying that...I just think it's selfish to get into something so soon after splitting without even telling your kids—"

"_Soon?_ Lily, it's been three years!" exclaims Al. "Maybe he should've told us, but people do stupid things all the time!"

"Oh, so you think I'm stupid too?" she bursts out, the tears finally spilling over. Oh, god. "Going to call me an underachiever while you're at it, you miserable—"

"How can you defend her when you're obviously still upset about her being awful to you? You want _her_ for a mother? You want _her_ to be with Dad? She never gave a crap about any of us!" Al shouts. Lily stands up, shaking arms locked at her sides, her hands balled into fists. Tears are sliding down her cheeks but Al won't back down. "Finally something _good_ happens to him—first time in a while—and you're going to ruin it for him by defending _Mum?_ You've got to stop living in your own head, in your bloody dreamland, for Merlin's sake!"

"Albus, please—" Hermione begs, but Lily waves an arm at her.

"No, let him go on! You're _just_ like Mum—nobody can be right but you! And maybe she wasn't a very good parent but she's _still our mother,_ Albus Potter, and you can't just replace your mother, you _can't!_"

Alright. This has gone far enough. I stand up. "Enough." My voice is calm—thank Merlin—and it shuts everyone up good and proper. I look pointedly at both Lily and Al for a few seconds before continuing. "I think it's time for a sit-down. Hermione," I add in a murmur, "would you mind giving us a few minutes?"

As she meets my gaze, I see mirrored in her eyes all of my pain and regret, and the unwavering love that's got us this far. We'll get through this. It's Hermione. I can do anything when I'm around her. "We'll talk later?" she asks quietly, and I have to consciously restrain myself from touching her cheek. I nod. She goes to the door, and as James moves out of the way to let her pass, she looks back at me. I don't need to hear her say it. And she knows, now, that I love her too.

"This is mad," mutters Al as he crosses the room to lean against the windowsill again. I heartily agree.

With a heavy sigh—it's not the first and it won't be the last—I drag my fingers through my hair and scratch the back of my neck. "Well, I'm a mite uncomfortable. How about you lot?"

"_Uncomfortable?_" Lily exclaims. Could she give me a break for two moments? "You've just ruined everything and you're going to drive Mum away and you've just been caught having a bloody affair with another teacher—"

"It's Aunt _Hermione!_" Al exclaims. "Not bleeding _Voldemort!_"

"She's our aunt, exactly! You don't think that's _wrong?_" She turns back to me. "Who do you think you are that you've got the right to just—"

"Lily, shut _up,_" groans Al. "You sound like a broken record. He's not evil; he's not trying to hurt us—"

"Well maybe _you_ don't feel we need a proper mother figure—"

"Did I say anything about that? Did I?" Al asks the room, spreading his arms wide. "You're the mad one; there's nothing to be done with you, is there? You just want everything to be about you, all the time, want it to be _your_ great bloody drama and _your_ tragedy and _your_ bloody story when maybe it's somebody else's turn. Life isn't gonna be perfect, ever, you might as well accept that and stop being a drama queen and a brat!"

Lily bursts into fresh tears. "I _hate_ you, Albus Potter!"

"Great, now _I'm_ the bad guy?"

"I hate all of you! You've _ruined my life!_"

"Right, well, this is just stupid," says James, finally interrupting. I'm quite shaken. I don't know how to deal with Lily and Al fighting. They've never fought before, not like this at any rate, and I have no experience handling it. Hermione would know how to stop them. Lily's still only thirteen—her birthday is in October—and just in the middle of that horrible preteen age where everything is, as Al so accurately (if rather rudely) put it, a great bloody drama. How am I supposed to _deal with this?_

"Oh, perfect!" Lily sobs, rounding on James. "Now _everyone_ thinks I'm stupid!"

"_You're_ not stupid, you're _acting_ stupid," he says calmly. "Keep up the waterworks and the screaming and soon they won't have you on the Quidditch team next year, they'll say you're too volatile. No, I'm not done," he continues, talking over her as she begins sputtering indignantly. "You just need to really chill out right now. I've got stuff to do, Dad, so if everyone could _shut up _a minute, I want to hear your side of this." His relaxed stance leaning against the door doesn't change, but the look in my eldest son's eyes cuts to my core. He wants to hear my side. He's offering me a chance. By thunder, I'll take it.

I take a deep breath, hold it, and let it out slowly. Lily looks at me. So does Al, his face expectant. Meeting each of my children's gazes individually, I start with the war.

I don't know how long I talk for. I explain how Hermione, Ron and I set out to find a way to destroy Voldemort together, that fated year when we were seventeen. James is almost the same age now; as I tell them about the instability of the situations we got into, and how everything was affected by how young we were, I can see how troubled James is by it. We were only a few months older than he is now, and we were traipsing all over the country, on the run from the most powerful and evil warlock in history, already having fought him off several times in my case, the weight of both the wizarding and Muggle world on our shoulders—on my shoulders—the fates of endless lives come down to a boy and his friends. I don't like talking about it, even now. It was over twenty years ago and I still don't like to. But I have to make them _understand_. Somehow I have to get through to them that the bond the three of us formed—especially Hermione and I, during the time that Ron left—is too strong to break. I don't know if I can even begin to make it clear to my kids.

The ball. A year before the night in Hermione's kitchen, the four of us, both couples, went to an eight-year anniversary ball that some old witches threw to honour my victory over Voldemort. That night I danced with Hermione, and something that had been growing unnoticed in my mind clicked, and I realized to myself then that I felt more for her than I should. I make sure in the telling now that I'm very clear: nothing happened. I never wanted to be unfaithful to Ginny. (Well, that's sort of a lie; I should say, rather, that I never _was_ unfaithful to Ginny.)

"Dad, can I interrupt for a minute?"

I stop in the middle of my sentence and look at Lily.

She hugs herself. "Why are you telling us this stuff?" There is a long pause where I'm lost. I...I thought they wanted to know. No, they _need_ to know. They do. Don't they? I second-guess myself so much I don't know how I make decisions anymore. Lily bites her lip. "I mean...this...this is all really...I don't want to _hear_ how you never loved Mum. I don't want to hear that."

"Oh, Lily, honey, no. I _did_ love your mother, very much. That's why we were together! That's why we stayed together, for so long—and for your sakes, of course, later, but we did love each other. That was never in question."

"You can't—you can't love two people, Dad!"

I sigh and take off my glasses to rub my eyes. Ugh. How to explain this... "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Lils. I...I did. You can, evidently, be in love with two people at once. And I'm sorry, for _everyone's_ sakes, that it took all this mess to pile up before I could sort myself out. It's my fault, and I'm sorry."

"Doesn't sound a whole lot like your fault," says James casually from the door.

"I dunno," says Al, and scowls. "'S all very convoluted, if you ask me."

"You don't even know what that word means," Lily snaps.

"Oh, shut up," Al snaps back. "Why are you interrupting, anyway? Do you _ever_ shut up? He's telling us what happened!"

"Alright," says James loudly, pushing himself upright. The other two round on him, glowering, but he just looks right at me and keeps talking. "Dad, we're not done talking, yeah? I just...can we talk later?" he asks, and I nod. "Thank you." He turns around and opens the door without another word.

"Where are you going?" Al calls.

But James has already left, slamming the door shut behind him.

o

xXxXx

o

I can't believe I did it.

I kissed Harry. Half my mind is shouting '_Go Hermione go!_' and the other half is me wanting to smack myself for being so stupid. I knew James and Lily and Albus were coming back to his office! I should have thought about it before I went ahead and did something so spontaneous and—and irrational, and—

_Wonderful._

I can't help it. I am on top of the world right now. There's a stupid little smile on my face and I can't wipe it off. I don't even know where my feet are taking me. Ha! Oh, look at that, I'm outside. What a _gorgeous_ day. There are students lounging under trees and grass growing long on the lawns and _is_ that a bluebird singing? I would sing, too, if I had any kind of voice. How long has it been since I left his office? Half an hour? I don't know, I've sort of been wandering around in a daze, to be honest, and now I'm outside and it's so lovely I just can't believe it.

"Aunt Hermione!"

For a moment I am transported back in time as I turn and see a young version of Harry jogging towards me across the long grass. He looks so much like his father from this distance. It's only from close up that Ginny's eyes mark the difference. When James catches up with me, he doesn't immediately say anything. I feel very aware of the fact that my nephew hasn't spoken to me alone in almost two years, and we used to be so close—not since the night I decided I had to end my marriage. He fidgets, doesn't meet my eyes. Scratches the back of his neck. I wait patiently, knowing I fully deserve every bit of anger he's about to throw in my face. I betrayed the spirit of my promise to him while obeying the letter of it—I knew this would be a problem—I should never have said anything, should never have come to see Harry so soon after Ginny left, he was emotional, confused, he probably hadn't meant what he said the way I thought or wanted him to—

"Listen, er, I just wanted to, are you busy?"

I blink. "Not at all."

"Um...are you and my dad...how, uh, what is this?"

"What do you mean?"

James gives me a level stare and a sigh. "He's mad about you. Obviously."

Heart rising into my throat, I nod. I can't believe it but somehow it's true.

James sighs again. He runs his fingers through his hair—like Harry has done millions of times, and is a habit I have picked up too, isn't that odd; is it a contagious thing that people who love him are susceptible to?—and he meets my gaze. "Well..." he swallows, and forces the words out. "I'm...sorry."

Again, I blink.

"For...the things I said. Then."

My heart swells, filling my chest with emotion—the lump in my throat grows and all of a sudden I don't trust myself to speak.

"I was...out of line." He pulls his mouth to one side, looking uncomfortable. "And...I shouldn't have...yelled. Or accused you of—or said..." he trails off, and looks at me, rawness in his face. "I'm sorry. I know it's not _really_ my fault that you and Uncle Ron split up, but I know I was the...trigger, I guess, and I'm so sorry for that too. I never—"

"Oh, James, no," I begin.

"No, I know I at least had—some factor in it, even if you would've anyway, because I made you promise...which I had no right to, I dunno what I was thinking, and I'm—just—sorry." He looks as though there's something bitter in his mouth. I know how much it costs teenage boys to admit they are wrong, and am finding myself fighting my muscles to keep them still. The urge to hug the boy is overwhelming—but the fear of rejection is no less sharp. A breeze ruffles my sleeves and makes the back of James's hair stand up. What does he want me to do, or to say? Is he looking for forgiveness, because that's ridiculous, I'd never thought of blaming him in the first place—I thought James hated me these past two years, why else would he not have spoken to me since?

He looks at me. His face is young and open—and so raw. Something is tearing him up inside.

"And I don't hate you."

I break.

I hold out my arms and my nephew walks into them and damn me but I'm crying, because it is just too much, with Harry—_Harry, god, Harry loves me_—and Ginny reappearing and overturning everyone's lives and now James is here and telling me that I haven't destroyed our relationship—it is just too much, _no_ one could be expected not to cry. The sky—blue, bright, beautiful—is blurry with my tears, and I laugh. God. What a beautiful day.

James pulls back and puts his hands on my shoulders. "I—are you—"

I have to reach up to pat his cheek. "When did you get taller than me?" I ask, wiping my eyes. He laughs. "I'm so happy you're talking to me again—are you okay, hon? With...I mean, you must think—"

"My dad told us everything," says James. _Oh, lord._ "Well, almost everything. Lily interrupted and I left. He said you never did anything. I mean, I knew you never did anything, you said so and I believe you and I _know_ I should have talked to my dad back then instead of you except I couldn't, he was so obviously torn up about—about just everything, y'know, and man, the way you acted around each other I just thought—I'm _sorry_, I was just a big ass, Aunt Hermione."

I smile. "It's alright, James. I was never angry with you, I hope you know that. I've missed you, you big lug," I say, hooking my arm through his and starting to walk, no real direction in mind.

"I missed you too."

We walk for a bit without saying anything. I can't keep the smile off my face. How can life possibly get better? In one day, the love of my life tells me he loves me too, and my favourite nephew (_I shouldn't have favourites but I can't help it_) has started talking to me again—he doesn't hate me, he's missed our closeness too—and I can't believe how...mature he's being about this. Well, I suppose, for every hundred wild-eyed hooligan teenage boys there must be one with some sense in his head and a bit of decency. God, Harry sure lucked out with this one. It's every parent's dream to land a well-behaved son. All the better that he's the oldest, to set such an example for his brother and sister. What a kid. Hell, I know adults that could learn something from him. My ex-husband, for one. Oh, that was uncharitable. And there's the pang of regret. I never wanted to hurt Ron. It was just a bad decision on my part—a number of bad decisions, cumulative ones, if I'm being honest with myself—that had led to...god, everything.

"So...what are you going to do now?"

"You mean about your father?"

"Yeah."

I sigh and let my head fall back so the cloudless sky fills my vision. "Well," I say with a slight grin, "I got kicked out of the room before we could say a word, actually."

James pauses, surprised. "You're right. I didn't even think of it. So—that was really the first, uh...?"

"Mm-hmm. You _know_, James, it's really odd talking to you about my relationship with your father, now. I'm—I'm your aunt. You're his _son_. You don't find that—strange? Awkward? I would have, at your age."

"I dunno. I guess. Listen," he says, stopping so I have to turn and face him. We've reached the lake now. "You won't...I mean, it's been years for him, which I'm not too pleased about considering he was married to my mum for it but when you think what a nightmare she turned out to be—"

"James—"

"Oh, come on, why does everyone defend her so much? Sure, she was provoked I guess—like I was saying—but you two never even did anything! Did you even know my dad—y'know—wanted, er, to?"

I blush. Ridiculous. I haven't been so silly in ages. "Well, I mean, I don't know, James, I—I was married, we both were, and into the same family, for Merlin's sake. You don't go around blurting out things like that." This is so bizarre. Do aunts normally have discussions like this with their nieces and nephews? Unbelievable. But then, who on earth _else_ am I going to talk to about it?

"Look, just—he's...he's so in love with you, and it's so obvious it hurts the eye. All I want to know is if this is just something that happened, or if you...y'know. Where you stand. What're you going to do?"

Oh, boy. "James, I really shouldn't tell you this, and I would appreciate some discretion here—"

"Sure—"

"—but I've been in love with Harry since we were _your_ age."

It is James's turn to blink.

"Oh. Well shit."

The dumbfounded look on his face makes me burst out laughing. "I know. It's pathetic, isn't it? And I was so wrong to get involved with Ron after the war, but I thought this would _pass_. I was _young_, after all."

James frowns. He looks away at the trees, then out over the water. "But...you had Rosie and Hugo, right? It can't have been all bad."

Yes. Sigh. Rose, my wonderful, brilliant daughter who's only barely speaking to me because it is 'so not cool' for her mother to say hello to her daughter in the corridors. And Hugo is too busy concocting new pranks to impress his cousins to bother with visiting his mother. But I couldn't love them more. "No, you're right, I shouldn't have said that. I just can't help wondering, sometimes, if we all wouldn't have been happier if I had simply spoken up about how I felt before anything got started."

"I've no idea how I'd feel, considering I would never have been born, Aunt Hermione, and I like me."

I hug him and am rewarded with a squeeze back. "Thank you. I don't know what to do now, though. Lily seemed upset," I say, heart sinking as I remember, "and I couldn't bear it if—"

"She'll come around. She just doesn't know how to deal with Mum being back, and then this on top of it set her off. She's very _like_ Mum, you know, only not really. I mean, they both have drop-of-a-hat tempers, _anything'll_ set them off."

"I suppose so, yes."

"Anyway, er, I guess...what was I saying? I just want..." James clears his throat. "I think you're good for him. I think he needs you and I guess you need him, obviously, what you just said, so, I just think—I think it's good. Generally. This. Yes."

My eyes fill with tears again. "You don't know how much that means to me. Thank you."

He is suddenly gruff, kicking a clod of dirt into the lake. "Yeah, well, okay. Don't cry or anything, Aunt Hermione, yeesh."

We're laughing as we keep walking.

o

xXxXx

o

Hell, biscuits, dandelions, frogs, turkeys, dodgeballs, Merlin's whole wardrobe and all the gnomes in Europe, I _am_ in trouble_._

I've been pacing round in circles in my office for ages. After James left—on a very strange note, _might_ I add—I tried to keep Albus and Lily under control but she just got so worked up I don't know _what_ to do with her. Al assured me she was just 'being an idiot' and went to go 'knock some sense into her fat head'. Teenagers! Oh, if there's one bane of my existence it would be them. What I would have given to understand them better in my school years. Maybe I would have caught on to the fact that one of my best friends was goddamned in love with me since we were seventeen years old, and _by_ the way where _is_ that woman? I can't stop thinking about her, big surprise that; god, her hands in my hair and kissing me like that, makes me want to pick her up and carry her right to my room and—and there goes my brain. Okay, dead puppies, dead puppies, grandma—I don't have a grandma—what if James walks back in right now? Lord, the indecency.

Okay. Can't think about Hermione. No, I've got to think about Hermione, I'm madly in love with Hermione, I can't live without Hermione, AHA she loves me! She loves me she loves me she STILL loves me jumping gnomes I feel like sticking my head out my window and WHOOPING—

Got to focus, Harry. Business to take care of here. Holy trolls, GINNY'S back. Could this day be any longer? I thought if Hermione and I ever got it on then we would have all sorts of time to be together on the down-low before we told anyone. Wouldn't that be best? But _no_—on the same day my ex-wife arrives back in town, right at my doorstep no less, I get Hermione to finally come out and—

Hmm.

She never _actually_ said it, did she? Not that it _really_ matters. I mean, in the grand scheme of things. Though. Hmm. No, it's nothing. She just didn't have the chance, that's all—we were interrupted, right? By all of my children, too. _That_ was _fantastic_.

But I was the one putting myself out there this time. I remember...her kitchen...

I guess that's what it all comes down to. Fourteen years ago (good heavens, has it really been that long?) she admitted to me that she had feelings for me, had since the bloody war. I don't...know if I ever really expressed...how I felt, what she did to me. Does to me. You know I remember the moment I realized I was in love with her. It was at this ball, this silly fancy Anniversary Ball to commemorate my defeating Voldemort...it was a year, I think, before her kitchen. I couldn't believe how stunning she was that night in those dress robes...but, then, I can't decide when I thought she was more beautiful: the night of that ball or panicked and fray-haired in her housewifely apron the night this whole thing started. I just can't believe she still loves me. _Me_. I'm just a barmy old professor now. I saved the world as a boy, perhaps, but now I'm just another middle-aged man with a long memory and a few stories. What in the name of magic does a brilliant woman like her see in me, I ask you? Who am I asking? I'm talking to my own mind, here.

It was a waltz. I remember now, a fast one. I'd been taking lessons with Ginny for two months beforehand, so I was ready. I don't know what made me ask Hermione for that dance. Gin wanted to sit down and have some more wine, rest up her feet for a minute, and that was fine, I remember my feet had hurt too. Something...something just made me want to keep going. And she was sitting there, and I went up to her as Ginny sat down and I felt this, this heat, this warmth, just fill me and I could swear her—her _smile_ changed, if that makes any sense. When she saw me standing there holding my hand out, she—her face went from laughing-happy to something...I don't know, a deeper, more real happiness. A kind of contained excitement.

What a dance that was, too. I'd been taking lessons, like I said, and I was pretty good. And somehow all girls just know how to dance. So we were off and away. I can't remember if we said anything to each other the whole song long—I just remember this one moment...I dipped her, and her arms went around my neck, right, and right at the bottom if I'd leaned the slightest bit down I could have kissed her. Wanted to. Thought about it. Forgot I was even married for that minute. All I knew was her. It blew my mind, after. Seemed to go on forever. But then I heard a high trumpet note in the music, and I don't know what would've happened if I hadn't—probably nothing, I don't know—but it sort of jerked me back to my senses, and I picked her back up and we were off again and the music played and I went into this...almost a trance sort of thing. I didn't think about what my feet were doing, I just let them go and literally did not take my eyes away from hers for the whole rest of the song.

And then when it stopped we stood there for a second, still looking right at each other, she was still in my arms and we were just standing there staring and I wanted to kiss her again—but she broke the gaze and stepped back, and went back to the table. I remember I just stood there like an idiot and watched her go. She looked back, too, and saw me, and I was just so damn confused I didn't know which way was up, and _finally_ I blinked, and glanced at Ginny (who was sitting across from Hermione at the table) and boy, she was pissed. It wasn't a very good night after that. Lots of cold shoulder and door-slamming and frosty silences from my wife after that. I should've known then. I should have known.

A thought has just occurred to me. I will probably never see the Burrow again.

The realization stuns me into motionlessness. It's been my second home since I was twelve years old. Hell, it _was_ my home for the eight months between the end of the war and when I got my own place in Godric's Hollow. Oh, Merlin...no more Weasley clock...will they take me off of it? Ginny will probably insist on it. Ron already took Hermione off of it last year. I've still been attending Weasley gatherings since Ginny left; she wasn't there to protest, and because of her...irrational actions, I don't think any of them resented me too much for the split, so in her absence I remained a part of the family. It hadn't even occurred to me until just now that I'll never attend a Weasley function again. By my ex-wife returning to England, I...I've lost my family.

I know I've only stayed close to them on borrowed time. She wouldn't have stayed away forever, and if she hadn't left, I would have been ostracized three years ago, but...I never even worried about it. Oh, god. Molly. I've lost the only mother I've ever known. Arthur, George, Angelina, Bill and Fleur and Charlie, even Percy and Audrey...what am I going to do without the Weasleys? I only hope Ron will still see me. But how am I going to tell him I'm with Hermione?

I love her. That's all that matters.

...That's all that matters. What am I doing? What's pacing my office going to accomplish? I have to go find her, I have to talk to her, need to—what's stopping me now? Nothing. I'm a bit of an idiot. Huh.

I whip open the door and stride through my classroom to the corridor. A few students walking by give me strange looks as I hurry past them. Maybe it's the excited light in my eyes. It's like there's an ember inside my chest that I've been trying to keep alive for years and it's finally caught fire. The halls whiz by—and I stumble to a stop in the middle of the Entrance Hall. Where am I going? I feel sheepish as I realize I have no idea where she is. I assumed she would be...in the library, I suppose, but that's hardly where she would go at a time like this, if I know her. It's funny; once, the library would have been the only reliable place to find her, but now that she works there (and is still being completely wasted, she should be teaching subjects, not just shelving books; she's the most overqualified librarian-slash-nurse that the world has ever seen) she's less likely to be found there. I suppose I don't exactly go to my office when I need time to think alone. So where would I go?

A smile comes to my face as it hits me, and I turn toward the open front doors, letting the afternoon sunshine wash over me.

"Harry, there you are!"

Oh, bother.

"Hullo, Neville," I say, turning again toward the grand marble staircase at the other end of the Hall. He waves and hurries over to me, balancing a stack of books in one arm and trying to keep a huge satchel of herbs on the other shoulder. The bag is writhing a bit. Interesting.

"Hi, just wanted to catch you up on the staff meeting notes. Do you have a minute?"

Oh, for the love of—in all the turmoil, I completely forgot there was a staff meeting today. _Bother!_ I sigh and smack my forehead lightly. "Yes, thanks, Neville, I don't know what came over me to miss the meeting, so sorry—"

"Oh, not at all, not at all. I mean," he says, lowering his voice and leaning in a little, "it's perfectly understandable. And listen, if you want to take a day or two off classes, I'd be happy to cover for you, if you want. And we talked about it at the meeting—if James and Albus and Lily need a few days that's alright too."

"Does _everyone_ know she's back, then?" I sputter.

"Well, pretty much, yeah," he shrugs. "Everyone knows who she is, and she didn't exactly make it a secret when she got here. Burst through the front doors and marched right into the staff room asking where you were, you know. It was my spare, you see, I was just talking to the Headmistress about getting some new plants for Greenhouse Seven, I think the Stinging Puffpods are dying, dunno why, I tried giving them some steamed goat's milk but it didn't seem to work...oh, I'm sorry, the staff meeting, right."

"Yes," I say, amused despite everything else.

"I was secretary this time, here, I'll make you a copy—" Neville twitches his wand and pokes it at something in his pocket. A puff of purple smoke comes out. "No, that's not right," he mutters, and wiggles the wand so it's aiming slightly to the left; this time, a foot long piece of parchment appears in midair, and I reach out to catch it as he's got his hands rather full. He beams at me. "There you go, those are the minutes. So how are you holding up? Bit odd, eh, having your ex-wife back in town?"

"Yes," I say again, not really knowing how else to answer.

"I'd be in a right state if I were you," he goes on. "Good thing Hannah and I are on solid ground. She doesn't mind me being away for most of the year, she visits whenever she can and the kids do help. Say, have you seen Briony around anywhere, by the way? I just wanted to give her a heads-up so she won't be too surprised if James is sulking today, you know how inseparable they are, like you and Hermione were at that age. Speaking of, how's she doing? Haven't had a chance to chat for almost two weeks now, funny, really, we work in the same school but I suppose it's just that big, isn't it?"

"Yes—"

"Oh, there she is!" he says, cutting me off and waving to someone over my shoulder. My stomach does a back flip and lands on its rear end as I turn. How can I face her? I'm not ready, I have to think of something to say, holy _trolls_ my insides are squirming with anticipation—

"Hi, Dad," a young girl's voice calls from the doors. I blow out a sigh of relief and disappointment. Briony Longbottom bounces over to us, long thick braids swinging. "Hi, Professor," she says to me, and I nod and smile.

"Briony, I just wanted to warn you, James might not be in the greatest of moods today," Neville starts off. Good lord, is he going to tell her right in front of me? Apparently so, because he rolls right along in the next breath. "You remember Professor Potter's ex-wife, Ginny Weasley? Well, she's back from France, and did a number showing up to his class today. Apparently burst in and caused some ruckus. The Potters will probably be a little out of sorts for a bit, just so you know."

Unbelievable. Briony glances uncomfortably at me, equally aware of her father's good intentions and total lack of tact. I shake my head and shrug helplessly; she shoots me a look of sympathy. "Er, sorry to hear that, Professor."

"It's alright," I reply, feeling awkward.

"Well, anyway," says Neville, clapping me on the shoulder and hefting his squirming bag of Stinging Puffpods, "if you ever need anything, Harry, you know I'm your man. Now Briony, I actually have been meaning to talk to you about your last Herbology assignment. The sketch of the Necromantis Habitua was superb, but there were a few slight errors in the labeling of its component parts that I wanted to clear up."

"Oh, shoot. I mixed it up with the Venomous Mantis-Trap, didn't I? I always confuse those two—was it the drooping mandibles or the pollination...?"

Father and daughter walk into the Great Hall, already deep in an animated discussion about plants. Briony—one of James's closer friends, they're in the same year and in a lot of the same classes—inherited her father's passion for Herbology. Her younger brother Basil is in the same year as Lily and Hugo. Good girl; gets decent grades, and generally well-behaved—she's the comedian in their group of friends, not in a Fred-and-George pranking kind of way (ouch, still tough to think about), but more just a funny person, I suppose. James thinks she's hilarious. I would try and matchmake, but he's been head-over-heels for the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain, Rory Cleaver, for the past year, even if he doesn't know it. Poor boy.

How _do_ I get sidetracked so easily? The goal, Harry, the goal! Find Hermione!

Right. I was going outside. The afternoon sun is bright and warm and I breathe in deeply as I walk down the front steps. Merlin, it's gorgeous out today. Just a couple of hours ago I was protesting the cloudlessness, thinking that if Ginny was storming back into my life, it should be storming outside, too. Little did I know, eh? What a _day_.

My happy daydream is rather rudely interrupted by yells from a spot across the lawns to my right. There's a crowd gathering over there. Damn it, aren't I off duty or something? I'm tempted, so tempted, to just keep walking, and I almost start to—but now a couple of second-years have spotted me and are running pell-mell in my direction. _Sigh_.

"Professor, _Professor!_"

The two boys—Merlin, identical twins—skid to a stop in front of me, winded, and both start speaking at once.

"Professor, Freddie Ferguson and—"

"Ollie Dortmunder are fighting—"

"They're _dueling, _Professor—"

"Tried to stop them but—"

"Help!"

Oh, for the _love_ of all that is good and holy.

I stride across the lawn towards the gathering crowd and put my stern-Professor-face on, making sure my wand is handy and loose in my pocket. Why now, honestly? Really, is this fully necessary? Can't students sort things out these days without resorting to violence and magic? The most they'll be able to do to each other is knock each other over, maybe give out a nosebleed if they're lucky. Er, unlucky. I _am_ a bad influence.

I march up to the crowd and it parts for me, revealing two fourth-year boys with their wands out, slowly circling each other. One has a cut on his eyebrow and the other seems unscathed. Both snap to attention and look incredibly guilty as soon as they see me, which affords me much private amusement; I don't think I'll ever get over how funny that 'oh-no, the-teacher's-coming!' guiltiness is when I'm the one inspiring intimidation. Excellent.

It doesn't take too long to sort things out. The pretty girl edging into the crowd was being fought over; the boys were dueling to impress her. Unbelievable, really. She had better be worth the week's worth of detentions both boys are getting. No real harm was done; I'll just have them write lines or clean something. We do like to discourage duels, though. No good comes of them.

Once the disappointed crowd disperses, I'm left feeling lost and anticipatory again. I still don't know where she is. I'm banking on her having the same thought as me here. I quickly cross the grounds, making my way through the long grass (I should really make a note to tell Hagrid it's getting tall; I'll do that later) and stepping lightly all the way down to the edge of the lake, passing clumps of students lounging in the shade of young trees dotting the grounds down to and along the waterline. I walk along the water's edge for a while, far enough along that I've left all but the most wander-some students behind, until the old birch rises up in front of me. It's been there for as long as I can remember. About two and a half years ago, when I first started working at Hogwarts, I carved something into the bark of this tree that I really shouldn't have, but I did anyway, and it's not as though it was obviously me or anything. It's just a little pair of overlapping H's.

I plop myself down facing the lake and lean against the base of the tree, the carved letters above my head. Such a teenage thing to do. But I like it. It's nothing fancy, just two letters. The lower one has a little flourish—that's the Hermione one. I felt incredibly guilty about it afterward—she hadn't separated from Ron yet at that point, it was just my own little...I dunno, wishful thinking, I guess. Now it's a promise.

I brought her here when she started working at Hogwarts too. Didn't show her the carving of course, just wanted to have a place to sit and talk and not be interrupted. We come here every once in a while now, usually when one of us is upset or needs to talk about something or if we're stressed and need to relax. It's a good spot for that.

Funny. I was just reminded of the time she visited me, two Octobers ago, and we spent the day in Hogsmeade and she told me she was going to apply at Hogwarts—and at the end of the evening I slipped and caught myself on her shoulder and touched her for the first time in twelve years. Powerful stuff. I came here early the next morning to think. She came up to the castle later to see the five kids, around noon, and we sat on opposite sides of the room for the entire time. I don't think we even looked at each other more than a couple of times. Just focused on the kids as much as we could. I was painfully aware of her the whole while, though.

_Lily shut the door behind her and Harry was suddenly alone with Hermione. He waved his wand and the chairs righted themselves, then walked over to the window and raked his hair out of his eyes. When he glanced back at her, she was looking steadily at him._

"_Listen," she said, and took a deep breath. "About—about last night—"_

"_I'm so sorry about that," he interrupted her, his eyes moving down and away. He rubbed his face with one hand. "It was an accident, and then...I don't know what came over me. I'm sorry."_

"_Oh, it's...it's alright, I just—wanted to say—"_

_He couldn't take it. "Can we please just leave it at that?" he asked, his voice sounding strangled and choked. He looked at her again. Her eyes filled with tears. He leaned against the windowpane and pressed his temple to the cold glass. "I'm sorry. I can't...I can't."_

"_I understand," she whispered._

"_I'm sorry."_

"_It's alright."_

_Everything that went unsaid was like a blow to each of them. She left after that, with a quiet goodbye and thanking him for spending the previous day with her. Harry couldn't even respond. He just nodded and stared out the window until he heard the door close and she was gone._

I haven't done everything right. I've probably hurt her more than I've helped her with all of this. The sun is sinking slowly into the mountains, bathing the world in orange gold. How long have I been sitting here now? A while. It's peaceful. I hope she comes. I don't want to have to look for her all through the castle and find her in some hallway and have students all around everywhere. I...I want this to be special. I want her here. I don't care how silly it sounds, even to me.

I love her.

I can't stop thinking it, can't stop saying it to myself. A fire has been lit. Every second is fuel to feed it. My stomach has been reduced to a roiling mass of nerves. My thoughts just keep going in circles: where is she, what's keeping her, she doesn't know where I am, I should go find her, no I should stay here, but where is she. I can't concentrate on anything else, can't _think_ of anything else. My whole world has narrowed to the gently lapping water, glazed from the blazing orange sun; the birch leaves hanging down around me, the double H's above my head, and Hermione.

A twig snaps.

I look up.

"Hey, stranger."

Her quiet voice and secret half-smile tugs the corners of my mouth up involuntarily. How was there ever a time when I was blind to this? How was there ever a point in my life when I could love anyone but her?

"Hey."

She walks over, lush grass rustling beneath her feet. "Whatcha doing way out here all by yourself?" A breeze picks up and she stops a few feet away, curls blowing gently, and hugs herself.

"Watching the sun set."

There's that little half-smile again. I want to kiss it into full bloom. "It's May, Harry." Hearing her say my name sends a shiver down my spine, right from my neck to the base of my back. "The sun won't set for another hour." I shrug. She stares out over the open water for a few moments. "It is pretty, though," she says softly. I nod. Play it cool, Harry, play it cool. She glances back down at me. "Do you mind if I sit?"

...Do I _mind?_

I look up at her incredulously. "Is that a real question?"

She laughs and takes a seat beside me on the grass, tucking her legs to the side and underneath her. Unbelievably, we sit in silence for a good few minutes, just watching the sun sink further towards the mountains and the water glow gold, listening to the breeze make ripples on the lake and hearing the hush of leaves all around. I've missed this. Just _being_ with her. We haven't done this in a long time—months at least.

Hermione scoots closer to me, hesitates for a moment, and then leans her head on my shoulder.

Sweet bliss.

For another few seconds we are still, and then I shift a bit so I can put my arm around her, and having her here tucked up against my side feels so unquestionably _right_ that I'm almost stunned. Am I shaking? A little bit. She turns her face up to mine. We're inches apart. "You meant what you said." It's not a question.

"I did."

Her smile grows slowly, spreading across her face like dawn breaking, and she brushes a bit of hair away from my eyes. The touch makes me tremble inside. "Good." Hesitantly, almost timidly, she reaches up and kisses me. I'm in _heaven_. When she pulls away too soon, she takes my face in both her hands. "Harry, I...is this going to work? Really work? You and me?"

I rest my forehead against hers. "I love you." It feels so good just to _say_ it.

"I love you, too."

"Then we don't have much choice but to make it work, do we?"

She laughs again, kisses me again. This time when she tries to pull back I don't let her, bringing a hand up and burying it in her hair, keeping her close. Her arms slip around my neck. She laughs breathlessly against my mouth, the sound making me want her even more. "Harry, I need oxygen." I keep my forehead against hers, holding her close. "What about...what about the kids?"

"Screw 'em."

She laughs.

"They'll understand. Albus is on board, I think, and Lily will come around."

"James found me earlier; we've been talking this whole while."

"So that's where he went."

"Yes. He approves," she says, eyes dancing with happiness. "He likes the idea, even."

"_I_ like the idea too."

I won't _ever_ get tired of making her laugh. "Oh, really?" She grins, and I display my enthusiasm by pressing my mouth to hers again, my arm snaking around her back and pulling her in so we're pressed together. A full minute later, once I have deemed her thoroughly kissed, I allow us both to breathe. There are spots of colour high on her cheeks and her eyes are hot and slightly glazed. Hoo boy, did I ever just get man-thoughts about her. "And what about my kids?" she asks, but the sterility of the question is marred by the fact that she's looking at my mouth as she says it.

I kiss her again and again between words. "They," I kiss her, "will," I kiss her, "under," I kiss her, "stand..." I kiss her long and slow this time before finishing with "...Hermione."

She squeezes her arms around me and rests her head in the crook between my neck and shoulder. When she breathes it sends tingles down my whole left side. "I love you."

I grin.

o

xXxXx

o

The date is June the twenty-seventh. It is a Friday. Harry and I have been together for just over a month.

We're snuggled under a blanket on a wide-seated plush armchair in front of the small fireplace in his room. My cool bluebell flames are burning merrily in the grate so we don't overheat; it's quite warm in the castle during the summer, after all. It's late—sometime past midnight, I think. Exams are done. Classes are over. There are two days left until all the students go home for the summer holidays. Harry and I spent the day together, roaming the grounds holding hands, nearly delirious with love (at least in my case).

Our relationship has become the worst-kept secret since the last Ministry cover-up. The five kids know of course, though my two don't know the _whole_ story, and Harry told Ron. He's...I wouldn't say he's taking it exactly well, but while he's upset with me, I don't think he's going to let it interfere with his friendship with Harry, which is the most important thing. I haven't seen him since before he was told, so I don't know how it's going to be between us considering I left him for his best mate; he didn't believe for a second that Harry and I had only just recently become involved, Harry tells me. He's completely convinced that we've been having an affair for years, since before Ginny left, even. I suspect that she might have talked to her brother about her reasons for leaving Harry. She always was sharp. Not that there was...I mean of course there wasn't anything going on _actually,_ but, well, you can generally tell when a person has feelings for another, and I did love him and I suppose he's loved me this whole time too, so it was really a big waste of everyone's time, staying apart, but there you go. We aren't perfect. Big news.

Lily started off being very cool towards me. I think I'm slowly succeeding in winning her over, though. I was sitting outside with Rose at lunchtime last week and Lily actually joined us; marched over with a sandwich and a bottle of pumpkin juice and plunked herself down on the grass, saying very firmly, "I have had enough of the Quidditch boys. What do girls talk about, Rosie? It's got to be better than making wagers about who's going to get laid first, Stephan or Edward." I was so shocked both at Lily joining us and her frankness at such a young age that my jaw fell open, giving cause for daughter and niece to laugh at me, and the three of us had a lovely half hour of chatting. I was very pleased. I'm optimistic, anyway.

Rose says she saw it coming—Harry and my relationship. Just since I started working here at Hogwarts. Her theory is that I needed him to comfort me when I left Ron, and the best way to be around Harry was to be at Hogwarts, so I came here and, being close friends already, the inevitable happened and we fell for each other. She's got a lot of points right, actually, though we did the falling years ago. She thinks it's sweet. Both she and Hugo had accepted Ron's and my separation a while back, and neither minds much that I'm with their uncle now. The Potter kids all have had much stronger reactions to the relationship, I find.

Albus has cheered us on since day one. He even told McGonagall that if she tried to pull some 'I'm the Headmistress and relationships between professors are frowned upon' on us, he would personally ensure that she found toads in her bed every night for the rest of her life. Such a charming boy.

James, amazingly, has been our strongest supporter. He's been doing everything he can to make me feel accepted and welcomed, well, back into the family, so to speak. Harry and I have decided to take it slow at first. I won't be moving in with him until next summer. I've still got that little flat in London and I'll live there officially for another year, or for this summer, rather; until I come back to Hogwarts at least. I'll probably sell it in September. But I'll probably spend a lot of time in Godric's Hollow over the next two months anyway. Maybe I'll have Harry over to the flat a few times when the kids are staying with Ginny.

She's looking for a place in London too. Hey, maybe I'll sell her my flat. _Or, alternatively, I could _not_ do that in a million years._ Gracious, can you imagine how insulting that would be? To have a former good friend of hers offer her the flat she was living in after separating from her brother and now is moving in with her _ex-husband?_ Oh, no, she's a former good friend...that's oddly the first time I've really thought of her that way. I mean when she left for France I didn't think of her as my friend at all—she stopped being Ginny Weasley, if you know what I mean, and became this some sort of almost mythical evil woman, who just abandoned her family, and had no real connection to the girl I grew up with and who was my sister-in-law. But now that she's back, and we are certainly not going to be friends—I don't see how it could ever be realistically possible—she's...not my friend anymore. And that makes me sad.

But I am happy.

...I'm _happy_.

I remember telling myself countless times that I was happy, all the years I spent with Ron, wanting to believe it, struggling to be content with what I had. But now...I don't have to struggle. I can finally relax. A smile spreads over my face for no reason. Just because.

Life is going to be good.

Harry shifts and presses his lips to the top of my head. I thought he was asleep this whole time. I feel him bury his face in my shoulder, my hair falling all around, and he lets out a long sigh. "I'm...happy." His voice is muffled. I can feel him smiling against my skin. I don't know if my heart is big enough to contain the happiness that just welled up inside me; my chest swells, rising. All I want to do is keep him here, this way, forever. Happy.

"I'm happy too."

"I'm happier."

"Nuh-_uh,_" I say with a silly grin. "I waited longer; therefore I've got dibs on being the happiest."

He kisses my neck. "Too bad I said it first, then."

"You're such a child."

"I love you."

I laugh, twisting in my seat so that I'm sitting across his lap, and take his face in my hands to kiss him thoroughly. He's so warm. And enthusiastic. I smile against his mouth and he pulls away a little to look at me. His glasses have steamed up a tiny bit. Combined with his lopsided grin, it is possibly the most adorable thing I have ever seen. I kiss him again.

Things start to heat up. The blanket slips onto the floor. A minute later, so does my shirt. I wonder if I should be more shocked than I am. I hope I remembered to put on nice underwear. Oh, there goes his shirt too. Oh, my. Oh, _my_, that is a lovely sight for sore eyes. I let out a yelp that turns into a giggle—how old am I, sixteen?—when he scoops me up in his arms, walks over to the bed, and dumps me onto it. There is a delicious light in his eyes that I haven't seen before tonight. I'm lying sprawled here, limbs every which way, hair a-tangle and falling into my face...and as he crawls onto the bed and kisses me, his hands starting to roam, I can't remember ever feeling more _alive_.

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Two months later, I start feeling sick in the mornings.

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*** THE END *  
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**Thank you all for being **_**so**_** supportive the whole way through. I'm not sure I'm finished with this storyline—'Stupid' is over, but for a while now I've been considering a sequel of sorts from another perspective, possibly James (I've grown really attached to him), not necessarily about Harry and Hermione, but following the events in this universe; the 'Stupidverse', lol. I might do a few vignettes using the 'Stupidverse' too, little one-shots from different characters showing things that we don't get to see in the main storyline. :) I hope you'll look for those by putting me on 'Author Alert'.**

**Love you all, and thank you again, so much. Cheers!**


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